


perspicuity

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Feelings, First Dates, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poisoning, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-29 21:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12639456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: Bond and Q are trapped in a lift. Awkward, under normal circumstances, for certain.Unbearable when Q has been poisoned and his life hangs in the balance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [beginte](http://beginte.tumblr.com/) for offering sound BETA advice!

 

**perspicuity** n., _der_. Latin - “to see through”  
seeing clearly  
clearness of insight or judgment

**00Q00Q00Q**

The day started as ordinary as Tuesdays in February tended to be: cold, wet, and a little dreary. Many people might have been tempted to sleep in, to avoid the morning chill and damp, but James Bond was not one of those people. He had just returned two days prior from an assignment in South America and the chilly temperature of London was just what he wanted after three weeks of blistering summer heat.

He managed to wake early enough to avoid the morning rush, not having to sit at too many lights on his way to Six. A good thing, too, because the car he had let was a new model Jaguar F-Type that didn’t deserve to idle at stop lights. It was a joy to be back on home soil after enduring inhospitable conditions in Paraguay, but even more so to drive the streets he had missed in a beautiful car with plates that told police to not bother pursuing him if he happened to be going too fast.

He pulled into the underground garage around half-past six, sliding the red sports car into a spot next to a rather plain Corsa with a banged up bumper. There weren’t many other cars in the lot due to the early hour.

Bond exited the car and locked it, shoving the fob into his pocket as he made for the northwest lift. The subterranean garage was new, acquired after some merger that Bond hadn’t given a care about when the memo had gone round. All he knew was that it was convenient to not have to find street parking.

Since they had acquired the property, Bond had discovered quickly that he preferred the lift from the garage because not many people used it. Most everyone came in through the front door, as the Tube station was just a block or so away. That meant the entrance was always clogged with people, all the ordinary 9-5 personnel that had never seen a Double-Oh in their life (and probably never would). It wasn’t that Bond thought himself better than them, he just didn’t want to end up in those awkward conversations while waiting for the lift. _Oh, you work in Finance? That’s interesting. I kill people for a living. Have a nice day._ It never tended to go over well. And really, all Bond wanted was to get in, do his debrief with Mallory, and then run the track for a few hours before the gym got too busy.

That was the boring thing about being in-between missions: not much to do but try to keep himself busy until the next assignment.

He rounded the corner and heard the _ding_ of the doors opening.

There was just one person waiting and Bond thought maybe he’d stand back until they’d gone ahead, just so he could ride alone without forcing an awkward conversation. But then the person turned round as they entered the lift, tugging back their hood, and their eyes met.

It was Q, looking a little sleep-rumpled and damp from the rain, his keys in one hand, a thermos in the other. He wore that awful anorak--the one Bond swore he would one day put out of its misery--but, as Bond came closer to the lifts, he saw that underneath, Q had dressed in a tasteful hunter green cardigan over a white button down. The top few buttons were undone, exposing his throat. It was strange to see him without a tie, but Bond rather liked the look on him, and had to fight to keep his eyes on Q’s face instead of that stretch of skin he’d never seen before.

Q held out his arm to keep the doors from closing, but Bond didn’t even bother picking up his pace, taking his time as he made his way closer. Oh, yes, he definitely liked the sleepy, not-yet-done-up button business Q had going on this morning. Bond wondered why he was just seeing this side of Q after two years of working with the other man.

“Surprised to see you in so early,” Q said, once Bond was in earshot.

“You know me. Early bird gets the worm.”

“That is nothing at all like you, Bond,” Q said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously as Bond entered the lift. “What did you do?”

“Didn’t know you drove,” Bond said, changing the subject in hopes that Q would be irked all day, wondering what he had done.

The truth was that he had done nothing at all, but it was fun to tease Q into thinking he had done something troublesome.

“Another quip about my age? That they shouldn’t assign driver’s licenses to people under the age of thirteen?”

“You said it, not me," Bond said, then nodded out to the lot, "Corsa?”

"We can't all lease the newest model Jag."

“It's cute. Bit of a bump on the back end. Still on your provisional?”

“Says the man who, on multiple occasions, has destroyed cars so thoroughly that he could only bring back a steering wheel.”

“It was a gear shaft once,” Bond reminded him.

Q rolled his eyes, holding out his arm to keep the doors from closing again. Bond glanced out into the parking garage to see who he had stopped the lift for and saw a white man in a grey suit. He looked like an ordinary office-worker, but he wasn’t carrying a bag or briefcase and didn’t have a badge anywhere in sight.

The hairs on the back of Bond’s neck stood up. He’d been in the field long enough to know someone suspicious when he saw them.

“You know him?” Bond asked Q, just to make sure he didn’t scare some poor office intern half to death.

“Isn’t that whatshisname from Accounting?” Q asked, adjusting his glasses with a frown. “Hm, no...it’s not. I must need a new prescription…”

Bond moved himself in front of Q, blocking him from the stranger’s view.

“Everyone that has access to this level has to be vetted. I’m sure it’s fine--”

But Bond was already reaching for the Walther under his arm, just as the man raised something to his mouth. At first, Bond thought it was a cigarette, but then he realised it was longer, like a reed. Bond’s body knew what it was before his brain, allowing him to side-step the thin projectile that came whizzing by his left ear. Thinner than a sewing needle, it wedged right into the cushioned wall of the lift.

“What the hell…?” Q began, just as the man lifted the blow dart gun to his mouth again.

Bond shoved Q to one side of the lift before diving for the control panel on his side, jamming the _door closed_ button with his thumb, urging the doors shut and the lift down before the man could get closer. Any other time, Bond would have confronted the man, using the unauthorised weapon under his arm, but he couldn’t take the risk when MI6’s Quartermaster was with him. Who was to say there wasn’t an accomplice, just waiting to make a grab for Q when Bond was distracted?

The doors closed with a _ding!_ and Bond immediately turned to Q, assessing him for injury. He seemed fine, just a little rumpled from Bond’s rough shove. His keys and thermos were on the floor at their feet, a testament to how the event had shaken him. Bond was just counting them both as exceedingly lucky, but then a queer look came to Q’s face, somewhere between concerned and shocked. At first, Bond thought it must have been the realisation of the encounter--an attempt on one or both of their lives or a kidnapping job gone wrong--but then he saw the needle-like dart in Q’s throat.

“Shit,” Bond said, and went to Q before his knees could give way.

“I’m okay...” Q said, as Bond eased him down onto the floor.

He was nothing but bird-like bones under his oversized coat, under Bond’s hands, his weight barely anything at all in the crook of Bond’s arm. All of this and the way his knees folded beneath him like paper and the rapidly-paling pallor to his skin, told Bond Q was anything but _okay_.

He was just about to say this--witty, smart, maybe even a bit sarcastic--when the lift shuddered to a halt somewhere between B2 and B3 and the lights went out.

“Fuck,” Bond said in the dark, hoping, praying the emergencies would come on, the generator would kick in, and they’d continue their way down to the bowels of Six, where Q could get medical attention right away...

...but the lift remained stubbornly still and dark.

Q gripped at his arm, surprisingly strong.

“...call it in, Bond…” Q said, his words and breaths heavy, strained. “They...need to lock down…”

Bond already had his mobile out, punching the auto-dial for M’s office. Despite the early hour, Bond knew Eve would be there.

True to this, Eve picked up before the first ring went through, and Bond didn’t let her get half a word in before stating clearly:

“Six needs to get on lockdown now. We’ve been infiltrated.”

Moneypenny didn’t ask any questions, a sign that her field training was still good despite her prolonged position as Mallory’s glorified secretary. In Bond’s opinion, she was wasted on a desk job, but if there was anyone who could handle a crisis aside from Q, it was Eve. So Bond felt immediately uneasy when he heard her swear softly on the other end.

“What's happened?”

“Something’s overridden our systems,” Eve explained, and Bond heard the _click, click, click_ of her heels as she left her desk and began moving. “Lights, lifts, digital locks, computers, everything just went down…”

So the power outage in the lift had not been Q-Branch after all, but instead orchestrated by whoever was attacking them. It felt like Silva all over again.

“I’m on my way to Q-Branch now,” Eve continued, “Q will know what to do.”

“He’s with me.”

Eve didn’t even pause.

“Where are you both now?”

“Northwest lift,” Bond said, trying to ignore how Q’s breathing had become more laboured in the past few minutes. “Q’s... He’s been..." The words were lead on his tongue, but Bond somehow muddled through it, “the Quartermaster is down.”

This time, Eve paused, as if she had missed half a step. Bond knew that she and Q were close, having often found them together sharing lunch or planning to go out for drinks after work. The threat had suddenly turned very personal to her.

“Status?”

To her credit, her voice didn’t even shake.

“He needs medical evac right away.”

Bond couldn’t see Q in the dark, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hear him, feel Q so very small against him as he struggled for breath.

“I think he’s been poisoned.”

Another swear, this one louder than the first. The sound of Moneypenny’s heels disappeared, and Bond imagined her carrying them in her hand as she dashed down the inner stairwell in her stockings.

“Do we know who we’re dealing with?”

Bond relayed as much information to Moneypenny as he could about the attacker, which, he realised, was not even close to enough.

“You need to make sure he doesn’t get out of the garage,” Bond told her. “Shut down the exits.”

“I can’t do anything with our systems down, but I do have Double-Oh Nine on speed dial and he owes me a favour.”

Bond nodded, even though she couldn’t see. Jack was as good as any to make sure the threat would be dealt with appropriately.

“We’re going to get Medical to you right away,” Eve assured him, but her voice was tight with concern, “keep this line open.”

And then she was gone.

Bond put his mobile on the floor, the lit screen offering an eerie blue glow in the compartment for illumination. Q shivered again, his breaths rasping, eyes halfway closed.

“Q, talk to me,” Bond said.

His lashes fluttered, his throat bobbing as he took a seemingly-painful swallow.

“Hm?”

Using the light from his phone, Bond pulled the dart out of Q’s neck, ignoring the hiss of pain that Q let out through his teeth. Bond then carefully removed both of his gloves, the needle nestled between the layers of fabric, and set it aside in the corner, far away from both of them. Once his hands were uncovered, Bond felt for the carotid artery in Q’s neck. The pulse beneath his feverish skin was sluggish, the toxin from the dart already taking effect.

“What’s’appened?” Q asked, his disorientation clear in the slur of his words.

“Stay awake,” Bond said, pulling Q to an upright position against his chest. “You’ve been poisoned.”

“Great,” Q said, sounding almost like himself. It offered Bond some relief.

“Are you in pain?”

“No...I don’t think so…”

“You don’t think so?”

Q didn’t answer, and Bond gave him a light shake.

“C’mon, Q, use that big brain of yours. Are you in pain?”

“No...just...numb... “ Q mumbled, and his head lolled against Bond’s shoulder. Bond felt the brush of his hair against his cheek, already damp with sweat. “...and… breathing ’s...getting hard…”

“Can you feel your feet?” Bond asked.

“No…”

“Nothing below the knee?”

Q shook his head slowly in the negative.

“Above?”

“A little...maybe...I can’t tell…”

He sounded a little scared and it was wrong--so _wrong_ \--because Q was never afraid, not ever. Not even when Bond had gotten himself into some impossibly bad situations in the past, when it seemed like he might not make it out alive. Q had always been so calm, so reassuring.

Now it was Bond’s turn.

Bond reached for his hand in the dark, threading their fingers together. Despite his rising fever, Q’s skin felt unnaturally cold against his palm.

“You’re alright. Squeeze my hand,” Bond instructed.

He felt Q trying, the tension of the muscle in his shoulder flexing weakly against Bond’s chest, but Q’s frigid fingers didn’t move round his.

“I’m...am I..? I can’t… can’t feel anything…”

Q’s voice went a little high on the last word and Bond’s mind immediately went to basic first aid: _keep the injured party calm_. It would not be conducive to tell Q that he had already lost motor function in his limbs.

“You’re doing fine,” Bond lied, “relax.”

Bond wish he could take his own advice, as he knew that panicking was not an option. He needed to focus like he did on missions. Facts mattered now, more so than this helpless fear, more so than realising that all of his mission successes had been due to the man lying in his arms.

_Focus_ Bond berated himself, turning to the facts.

Bond tried to remember where he might have seen the man before, but came up blank. He went to the weapon next. The only time he could remember seeing blow dart guns used was in southeast Asia. Blow dart guns were portable, lightweight, and, most importantly, silent. Crude but effective, they had been used in tribal communities for centuries and, more recently, in guerrilla warfare. The tips of the darts would be coated in snake venom--often cobra--with different potencies depending on the job: incapacitation, temporary paralysis, and death were the most common. If incapacitation and temporary paralysis were the outcome, then that had been achieved.

But judging from Q’s symptoms, this was just the beginning. The dose had been lethal, the lockdown of MI6 intentional to trap him in the lift without access to medical services. Without intervention, It wouldn’t be long before the numbness overtook Q’s lungs and killed him. And if that didn’t do the job, the poison would eventually stop Q's heart.

This had never been a kidnapping attempt.

This has been an assassination.

“Shit…” Bond breathed, reaching for his mobile.

So not to alarm Q, Bond didn’t call, but rather, typed out an SMS with one hand to Moneypenny:

_Possible snake venom. Need toxicologist and antivenom asap_.

Three little ellipses appeared on the screen, fading in and out as Moneypenny typed back a response. It took far, far too long to get her response, time crawling, even though the clock on Bond’s phone informed him it had only been a few minutes before her response came through:

_Relayed to Medical. Don’t move him. Keep calm. Will prevent spread of toxin._

A sudden, violent tremble went through Q, and Bond dropped his phone to hold him steady.

“Talk to me, Q.”

“‘m cold…”

“You’ve got a fever,” Bond told him, shrugging one arm out of his coat, then the other, before tucking it around Q to keep him warm. “Poison, remember?”

“Oh...” Q said, like Bond was talking about the weather.

It was worrying that Q already sounded delirious, and it hadn’t even been a half-hour yet.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

Q hummed and then shivered again. Bond pulled him closer, hoping his body heat would help.

“Better?”

“Mn.”

But Q hadn’t stopped trembling. Bond reached for Q’s hand again. His skin was still cold as ice.

“You’re freezing. Gloves?” Bond asked.

Q nodded, but didn’t give him any more information than that. It prompted Bond to reach for Q’s neglected satchel, blindly searching in the dark for a pair of gloves. He found the sharp edges of file folders, the smooth case of Q’s laptop, the sleek screens of two mobile phones, and a worn leather wallet, but no gloves. It was only after searching the pockets of Q’s coat that he found them.

“Here, let’s get these on...” Bond said.

It took some time to get each of Q’s cold, limp fingers into his gloves in the dark. Then Bond rubbed his hands over Q’s, trying to get circulation into the numb appendages. It might not be good for whatever poison was in his body, but Bond had a feeling that losing fingers due to poor circulation wasn’t ideal for Q either.

It might have been inappropriate, but Bond thought of Q’s hands in that moment--typing code with the grace of a pianist, modifying weaponry like an artist might work with clay--and tried to remember the last time they’d touched outside of this nightmare scenario. Weeks ago, perhaps, before Bond had left for South America, when Q had passed Bond equipment in such a way that their fingers touched, maybe even lingered, like they had before once or twice or a dozen other times. And just like the one or two or dozen times before, Bond hadn’t said anything, hadn’t crossed the line of propriety by reaching for and holding onto Q’s hand. Instead, there had been that something between them that Bond always felt but never acted upon, the thing that they both knew was there but never acknowledged.

Bond wondered if he would get the chance, if there would be a tomorrow where that lingering touch became something more than that thing they never spoke of.

Q hummed again, so sweet and soft that Bond might have been fooled into thinking they were somewhere else entirely. But Q’s cheek was burning against Bond’s chest, his breaths loud and rattling, the dark walls of the elevator seemingly pressing closer and closer with every passing moment, and Bond knew it was just an illusion.

“Alright?”

“‘s nice…” Q sighed.

“What’s nice?”

Q made a sound that came out somewhere between a laugh and sob. Bond wondered if he was in pain. He was just about to ask if rubbing his hands was hurting him, when Q’s voice came to him in the dark, soft and lilting:

“Arms...yours, I mean. Your arms. They’re... nice...”

Bond clamped down on the hysterical laugh that he felt trying to claw its way out of his throat. He’d always wanted to know what Q thought of him--really thought of him outside of sarcastic quips and unprofessional banter they’d shared over the years--and apparently all it took was a raging fever to melt away Q’s inhibitions, only to reveal that he thought that Bond had a nice physique. On any other day, Bond would have found it flattering, maybe even enough to justify acting on that growing desire to see Q outside of work if he were so inclined.

But the situation was all wrong. It wasn’t romantic or sexy or much of anything but worrisome. Q was already succumbing to the effects of the poison and declining quickly.

Too quickly.

But Q was talking, and talking meant he was conscious, which was how Bond intended to keep him. And so Bond did the only thing he knew how to do with Q, which was to try for some of their usual brand of repartee.

“I’m more than just a pretty face, Q.”

Q’s breath stuttered, like it got stuck on huff of laughter. And, _oh_ , Bond felt his own breath catch in his throat, because his mind was already going to worst-case scenarios, where he might never hear that laugh at two in the morning over the comms again.

“Pretty face...good arms...you’re the...whole package…”

Bond tried to smile, to inject some of his cock-sure personality into his next words, but they fell flat as they tumbled from his lips:

“You forgot my charming personality.”

Q didn’t answer, his head lolling back against Bond’s shoulder. His skin was iron hot, but Q kept shivering.

“Hey, stay awake.”

He jostled Q, gently at first, then with a bit more force, because he needed Q to remain conscious.

“‘M’wake…”

“We were talking about my charming personality,” Bond reminded him. “Care to weigh in on that?”

“You’re … not charming…”

“I’ll have to try harder, then, won’t I?” Bond asked. “What about dinner? You’ve always brushed me off, but it might be fun.”

It was true. Bond had asked Q to dinner many times, but Q had never accepted. Granted, all of those times had been over the comms when he’d been getting shot at, or in Q-Branch while returning damaged equipment and exchanging barbed insults, but Bond had meant it all the same. Maybe Q hadn’t thought so, because he always had a quip or an eye roll in response instead of saying _yes_.

Maybe, Bond realised, he should have done it properly, because now he might not have the chance.

"What do you say?"

“‘M’not...one of your girls...Bond…”

“What does that mean?”

Again, Q didn’t answer, and Bond tapped at his cheek until he heard Q’s sharp intake of breath.

“What?” Q asked, sounding almost lucid, like the times Bond had tapped his shoulder when he’d caught Q napping in branch after a too-long shift.

“Stay awake.”

Q let out a sigh that seemed to go as deep as his bones.

“Tired…”

“I know, but just for a little longer, okay?”

The lights suddenly flickered on in the lift, blinding Bond momentarily with too-bright illumination. He was still blinking away spots from his eyes when his mobile buzzed from the floor; Bond fumbled for the device, answered on the second ring.

“Bond.”

“Do you have lights?”

It was Eve, sounding out of breath, but in control, which was more than Bond could say for himself right now, full of guilt and regrets he never thought he would have to address.

“Yes,” Bond said.

“Good. That’s a step in the right direction. We can’t move the lift yet, but we’re working on it,” Eve said. “We’ve got Q-Branch and facilities doing their magic now, seeing if we can move you manually.”

“Good news,” Bond said, looking down at Q.

It was worse seeing him in the light than it had been imagining him in the dark. Q had gone white as a sheet, his lips pale and bloodless. The only colour to him was an angry red welt in the hollow of his throat.

“I’ve got Medical on the line,” Eve said.

“Bronson?” Bond asked.

Dr. Bronson was the most capable doctor they had on staff and the only one that Bond would let touch him when he was in a bad way. She had a mother’s touch and a no-bullshit policy that Bond respected immensely. And she was the only person he trusted to give Q half of a fighting chance.

The line clicked, and Bond heard her tinny voice on the other end.

“Bronson here. Status on the Quartermaster?”

Q’s eyes were closed again, his breaths shallow.

“Not good,” Bond admitted, relaying all of the information that he could: the numbness Q had described, his difficulty breathing, the fever, his bouts of unconsciousness.

“How was the poison administered?”

“Blowgun dart. I have two of them in the lift with me,” Bond told her.

“Was Q the target?” Eve asked.

“Unknown,” Bond said, “but he needs Medical _now_.”

There must have been something in his voice, because the line went uncomfortably silent for a moment. Then Dr. Bronson was even more serious than Bond had ever heard her before:

“We can’t get you out, but we might be able to get supplies to you in the meantime.”

Bond looked at Q again. He could barely see his chest rising and falling.

“ _Might_ isn’t going to cut it.”

Another beat, the quiet stretching longer and somehow more strained than before.

“We’ll get you supplies,” Dr. Bronson promised, “we’re preparing a kit now. It should be enough to stabilise him for the time being.”

Bond wanted to shout, but he managed to keep his anger in check.

“That’s not good enough. He needs antivenom right away.”

“Are you certain that this is snake venom?” Dr. Bronson asked.

Her tone wasn’t condescending, but Bond hated that she questioned him all the same. They didn’t have time to be going back and forth about this now, not when Q’s life hung in the balance.

“I’ve seen it before,” Bond replied, hoping that he was right, that this was something they could treat and not some concoction of poison with no cure, “it’s got to be. It’s too fast-acting and the symptoms are too similar to be anything else. This wasn’t meant to incapacitate. It was meant to kill.”

“We can’t just give him any antivenom. It could kill him--”

“You need to do _something_ ,” Bond urged her, his voice cracking, breaking on the last word.

Any other time, Bond would have been ashamed at his behaviour, at exhibiting such a weakness. But that was before he had Q struggling for breath in his arms, and so Bond cared fuck all for what people might think of him.

On the line, Bronson’s voice was firm.

“We can’t administer antivenom without knowing for certain if it is snake venom and what strain we're dealing with. Guessing will kill him.”

“You can’t do nothing--”

“We’re doing something, Double-Oh Seven. We’re going to follow standard protocol for a suspected poisoning. Until we know what this is, we have to be defensive. Administering an aggressive treatment against an unknown toxin is not conducive to that.”

Bond found himself nodding to her authoritative tone, her stern use of his call sign. It helped, having someone tell him what to do. It felt like a mission, something that had very clear parameters. If he followed orders, all would go smoothly and end well. 

"Okay," Bond said.

“Now, we’re working on getting supplies to you. In the meantime, I want you to think about how you’re going to get us the dart without contaminating it or yourself. If we can get a sample of the poison, then we’re ahead of the game.”

“Okay,” Bond said again. “How long do you think it will take to analyse?”

“If the sample is viable, a few hours.”

Bond looked down at Q. He didn’t think he had enough time--not stuck here without any access to real medical care--but he couldn’t say it aloud. If he said it, that would make it real, and it couldn’t be real.

It _couldn’t._

“We’ll touch base with you in a few minutes,” Bronson said, “ring us if there’s any change.”

The line didn’t turn to a dial tone, so Bond knew that Eve was still there.

“Anything, Moneypenny?”

“Trying. Computers are still down.”

“And Jack?”

“Nothing to report. We've got him and other active agents still searching.”

“Tell him to leave the bastard alive,” Bond said, his intentions clear with everything he did not say.

“I’ll...relay the message.”

Eve rang off, leaving Bond alone with Q and his barely-there breaths and all the thoughts of what he was going to do to the man responsible for this. Bond put the phone screen down onto the ground, not wanting to watch the clock. Time was already moving simultaneously too quickly and too slowly.

Q turned his head against Bond’s shoulder. He moved his lips but barely any sound came out. Bond leaned in closer, straining to hear, only managing to understand one word:

“...thirsty…”

“Okay, let me get you something…” Bond said, looking round the lift.

He spotted Q’s thermos and reached for it, keeping Q propped up against his chest as he did so. Unscrewing the top, Bond had to hold back his sound of frustration. The thermos was empty save for a damp teabag; the moisture at the bottom barely constituted a mouthful of liquid. Q must have finished it on his commute to work.

Still, it was something that he could offer, so Bond squeezed out the last big of moisture from the teabag before discarding it into the corner of the lift. Then he was as careful as he could be, tipping Q’s head back gently to help him swallow. Q coughed a little, most likely from the bitterness of the dregs, but he kept it down.

“More...?” Q asked, his voice soft, desperate.

It hurt Bond more than any bullet or broken bone he’d suffered to have to deny him.

“That’s all we have.”

Q swallowed with a grimace of pain. There was a blister forming on his neck where the dart had pierced his skin. Bond undid the second button of Q’s shirt so not to aggravate it.

It seemed that Q was about to try to say something else, but Bond’s mobile vibrated, prompting him to answer in a rush.

“We were able to get the doors open on B2,” Eve said, in a no-nonsense, facts-first way that Bond could have kissed her for, “it’s just a crack, so we can’t get anyone down to you, but we’ll be able to feed a package down your way. You’ll have to get out through the roof exit of the lift car. Can you do it?”

“Of course,” Bond said, already looking up at the ceiling for the emergency hatch.

“Bring the darts,” Dr. Bronson said, “and don’t prick yourself.”

Bond didn’t need to be told twice. Bronson continued:

“We’re getting you a shock kit. I’ll tell you how to set everything up once you’re back in the car.”

“Okay,” Bond said, and, brushing back Q’s damp hair from his forehead, added: “can you send down some water, too? He keeps saying he’s thirsty, and... this fever is so high, I think he’s dehydrated.”

“We’ll send some water down for you, but no matter what, don’t give him any. I know that’s hard to hear, especially if he’s asking for it, but listen to me, Bond,” Bronson said, and the seriousness of her tone had all of his attention, “if this is snake venom, he’s going to have to get all fluids through a saline drip. External fluids will just put a strain on his organs.”

“Right,” Bond said.

“We’re sending the package now. Ring us when you’re back in the lift.”

“Right,” Bond said again.

The instructions were clear. He had a mission. If he was successful--and he would be--then Q would be alright. The concise parameters helped center him, the call to action giving him better focus. He never had been good at sitting around. Being able to do something--being able to _help_ \--was exactly what Bond needed. And it was the only thing that would convince Bond to release his hold on Q in his current state.

“I’ve got to move you,” Bond told Q, and he made a pained sound as Bond shifted him to rest his back against the wall of the lift. “Sorry, Q...I’m sorry…”

He was tender as he could be when he wrapped his coat back round Q again to keep him warm. Although he would only be gone a few minutes, he didn’t want Q to be in any more discomfort than he already was.

“Hey,” Bond said, tapping his cheek until Q’s eyes opened.

They were glazed and shining, but Bond saw that Q was still with him.

“You need to stay awake, okay?”

Q’s throat moved, then his lips, but no sound came out.

“Shh, don’t talk,” Bond said, trying for soothing, not knowing if he managed it feeling as manic as he did in that moment. “I’ll be right back. I’m getting you meds. Five minutes, okay?”

Q managed a weak nod.

“Five minutes,” Bond promised, as he stood up.

Bond used the lift rail to give him some height and managed to push out the roof of the lift on his second try. When he looked up into the dark shaft, he could see a sliver of light from the floor above. There was a flashlight aimed down at him, illuminating the top of the car for his ascent.

But first thing was first: the darts. They were the key to all of this. They would determine if Q would live or die.

Bond carefully removed the dart from the wall using the handkerchief from his suit pocket, then laid it down on the floor of the lift next to his gloves, between which the second dart resided. He rolled the second dart into the handkerchief and folded it carefully, making sure the tips were enclosed in the thick fabric. Then he picked up Q's thermos and shoved one of his gloves into the bottom of the cup. He hoped it would be enough to keep the remaining bit of moisture from contaminating the darts, which, ensconced in the handkerchief, went in next. Once the darts were inside, he sealed the thermos tightly. It wasn’t the best method, but it was better than carrying them in his pocket.

The next part, in comparison, was easy.

Using the railing again, Bond hoisted himself up to the open panel. His arms burned, the old bullet wound in his shoulder twinging, but Bond was able to pull himself out of the car and onto the roof. A small bundle had been lowered into the shaft, about the size of a briefcase. Bond unhooked it and put it next to his knee. He then took the Velcro straps and tied up the thermos securely before giving the rope a gentle tug to let them know they could pull it back up.

The entire exchange took less than a minute.

Bond had done more nerve-wracking things before--atop high speed trains and plummeting aircraft--but his hands had never shook like they were now. There had always been people in danger, lives caught in the balance, but it had never been Q.

Not until now.

Bond dropped back down into the car, ignoring the flare of pain in his knee as he landed. He was more concerned with getting into the kit that had been sent down. It was, as Dr. Bronson had promised, a shock kit, complete with a blanket and saline pouch with tubing. There were also two bottles of water, a roll of tape, a finger clip, and six pre-measured, labeled syringes.

“Okay, Q, this’ll make you feel...”

The last word died on his tongue.

In the corner of the lift, Q had slumped to the side. His chin rested against his chest, his glasses at some point having slipped down his nose and into his lap. He didn’t raise his head when Bond came closer. Bond couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.

Bond reached for the pulse in Q’s neck, unable to find it over the thumping of his own heart in his fingertips. A helplessness overtook him, the same as it had years ago, when he’d lost another person he’d cared for in a broken lift at the bottom of Venice’s Grand Canal.

He wouldn’t let it end this way.

Not again.

It took Bond a long time to feel the weak beat of a pulse beneath his own hammering heartbeat. It felt faded, like an echo, Q slipping away right before his eyes. Shakily, Bond reached for the mobile, connecting right away to Eve and Bronson. His mission-focused mind had dissipated at the sight of Q like this, his thoughts scattered, words almost impossible, but Bond managed to get some of them into a semblance of order:

“What do I do?”

“Get him on the IV saline right away,” Bronson instructed, “then administer the diphenhydramine.”

More orders coming in helped Bond tunnel vision back to what was important. He put the phone on speaker and then moved mechanically, going on autopilot from what he had learned in the field and from emergency first aid.

He maneuvered Q’s arm from the sleeve of his coat and cardigan, then rolled back his shirt sleeve to his elbow. Bond was no doctor, but he had done himself up enough times to know how to find a vein and insert the needle. Q didn’t even flinch when Bond pierced his skin, then taped it up to hold the needle in place. The tube protruding from Q’s arm was forked, allowing a tube to be attached. The other could be used to administer medication via syringe.

“IV is in,” Bond said aloud.

Bond hooked up the saline bag, rigging it to hang off the railing so it would drip properly, before attaching the tube to the port in Q’s arm.

“Saline is done,” Bond said.

“Diphenhydramine next,” Bronson ordered.

Despite the cool temperature of the car, Bond felt sweat dripping down his back as he looked through the rest of the case. There were six syringes labeled with tape and cramped handwriting. Two were norepinephrine, which Bond knew would have to be administered in the event that Q’s heart or lungs stopped working. Three were labelled diphenhydramine. The remaining syringe contained a small dose of morphine.

Bond uncapped one of the syringes of diphenhydramine and inserted the end of the needle into the port apparatus.

“Pushing diphenhydramine,” Bond said, and when all the medication had cleared, he announced that to the Medical staff on the other end.

“Good, that should help stabilise him,” Bronson said, her calm voice soothing to Bond’s frayed nerves. “Now, put the pressure clip on his index finger. It’s Bluetooth. If the hatch is still open, we should be able to get a signal and monitor his vitals from here."

“We’ve also added the programme to your mobile,” Eve said, “so you’ll be able to monitor him as well.”

Bond did as they said. Almost immediately, an app opened on Bond’s phone over the call, showing medical readouts: blood pressure, pulse, temperature, oxygen levels. Most of the numbers were in the orange warning zone.

“We’re connected here,” Bronson said, "we'll monitor him let you know if there’s anything else that needs to be done right away.”

“What about the morphine?” Bond asked.

There was just enough to take the edge off serious pain, but not enough to dispatch someone suffering. 

“Only give it to him if he needs it,” instructed Bronson, “it will depress his respiration. We don’t want to use it unless he’s in pain.”

Q didn’t appear to be in pain, but his breathing was so, so shallow. Bond relayed this to the doctor, as if Bronson couldn’t see the low numbers reflected on her own screen.

“It could be the poison, or shock… or it could be both. It’s difficult to say without examining him. Lay him out flat. Prop up his feet. Keep him warm. Let us know if you need another blanket.”

Bond nodded along, as Bronson spoke, even though she couldn’t see him.

“Did you get the darts?”

“Yes.”

“Are they viable?”

“We believe we were able to get a good sample. I’ve got my best team analysing them now.”

“How long?”

“We’re rushing it. An hour, maybe two. Hopefully we’ll have you out of there before then.”

“Still working on it,” Eve assured him.

“Do it faster,” Bond said.

“We’ll do what we can.”

And then they were both gone, the line echoing in the car. Bond shut off speaker phone, keeping the app up, but muted, so he didn’t have to hear the weak beep of Q’s heart.

Moving was the only thing that seemed to help, so Bond began working to get Q more comfortable. He pocketed Q’s glasses for safety, then laid out his coat on the floor of the lift before carefully moving Q from the corner of the wall and into a more reclined position. He propped up Q’s legs on his satchel, then covered him with the shock blanket. When there was nothing left to be done, Bond settled next to him, adjusting Q’s head to rest on his thigh, thinking it might be better than the hard floor. Q didn’t react to this movement, not even when Bond rested his palm against Q’s burning forehead and began brushing back his damp hair in the most soothing way he could.

Then there was nothing left to do but wait.

Bond thought he would go mad listening to Q’s weak breathing, watching Q’s declining stats via Bluetooth feed. It seemed that with every passing minute, Q’s blood pressure dropped lower. It wasn’t long before the screen started flashing, alerting Bond that Q wasn’t getting enough oxygen. 

His mobile rang, the sound cutting through him like a knife. 

“Give him the norepinephrine,” Dr. Bronson said, “his blood pressure is too low.”

“Okay,” Bond said mechanically, his hands shaking as he reached for the shock kit, where he took up the labeled syringe.

“Easy in,” the doctor said.

Bond pushed the plunger down slowly. When all the medication was gone, Bond capped the needle and put it aside. He waited anxiously for Q to wake, but nothing happened. It wasn’t like the times Bond had hit himself with epinephrine and thought his heart might burst from his chest. It barely changed any of the stats on his miniature screen.

“He’s not waking up,” Bond said, not caring if he sounded afraid to all the ears that might be listening.

“It’s alright, he’s fine,” Dr. Bronson said, and the words had no sooner left her than the screen reflected that.

Q’s vitals were still far from ideal, but at least he wasn’t going to die right there in Bond’s arms.

“He’s stable right now. We’re still monitoring him closely. Just keep him comfortable.”

“We’re close to getting you out,” Eve chimed in, “just hang in there.”

Bond rang off, not wanting to hear any of them anymore. It was too excruciating to listen to them tell him that they would be fine, that everything would be alright, when nothing would be alright until they were out of the goddamn lift and Q had a real doctor taking care of him.

His mobile made a sound, alerting Bond to an uptick in Q’s vitals. Then Q took a breath that sounded strangled, and suddenly his eyes were open. He looked panicked, his chest heaving, and Bond knew it was short-lived adrenaline, but he felt nothing short of relieved.

“You’re okay,” Bond told him, again and again, petting at Q’s damp hair until his breathing evened out, the tension easing out of him in increments.

Bond’s mobile showed Q’s heart rate and blood pressure slowing from the spike, but not to the lethargic numbers from before.

“I know it feels like you just had a heart attack, but you’re okay,” Bond said.

Q blinked up at him, his eyes hazy and disoriented. But they were open and so, so green. Bond clamped down on the giddy laugh of relief that threatened to escape him.

“...not dead?” Q asked.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Q’s eyes softened, just a bit, as he smiled. Bond’s heart stuttered in his chest at the sight.

“Isn’t...that my line?”

Bond laughed, unable to keep his relief inside any longer. His eyes felt hot, like he wanted to cry, and then he felt overwhelmingly stupid about it.

“You’re going to be fine,” Bond said.

“Don’t...make promises...you can’t keep…”

Q’s eyes were closed again, his smile slipping away with his consciousness.

“Hey, no, no, wake up,” Bond said, not caring if he sounded desperate.

“Tired....”

“I know, but try to stay awake. For me, okay?”

“Not...everything’s ‘bout you, Bond…”

Still, Q managed to open his eyes again, half-crescents of green beneath dark, damp lashes. Q licked at his dry lips.

“...what…happened?”

“You were poisoned.”

Q’s brows went up, just a fraction, a facsimile of his normal expression when Bond told him something he considered improbable.

“…lucky me…”

“And we got stuck in the lift.”

Q groaned.

“They’re still working on getting us out. Hopefully not much longer.”

Q closed his eyes and swallowed again. His breaths rattled in his chest.

“I...I can’t feel anything.... Is that bad?”

“You’ll be alright.”

Despite Bond’s words, Q seemed distressed, so Bond gently went back to brushing his hair with his fingers. It had the desired effect, calming Q into a half-sleep, half-wake state. Bond kept him this way by telling him about Paraguay, spicing up the details to keep Q’s interest.

“You’re… making this all up…” Q said, after Bond had finished a particularly elaborate--and somewhat falsified--tale about taking down an entire smuggling ring singlehandedly.

“I swear I’m not.”

“Liar…”

“Sticks and stones, Q.”

Another smile, but this one smaller, more fragile, like a goodbye. Bond could feel the fight leaving Q in inches, but he wasn’t about to let him go. Not when there was so much left between them unsaid, undone.

“Hey,” Bond said.

Q’s lashes fluttered, but he didn’t open his eyes again.

“Hm?”

“You never said yes to dinner.”

“Dinner…?”

“Saturday at seven. I’ll pick you up. We’ll go somewhere nice. Anywhere you want. What do you say?”

Q licked at his dry lips, took a breath, and then another.

“...can I order...two desserts?”

Bond laughed, honestly laughed, because it was the last thing he expected to come out of Q’s mouth.

“You can have as many desserts as you want,” Bond promised, and Q smiled.

“...I think...I can pencil you in…”

Bond could have kissed him--wanted to so badly, as if it could be a promise between them--but then the lift suddenly shuddered and began moving down.

The doors opened at the next floor, where it seemed the entirety of Six stood waiting. Medical staff immediately came in, Dr. Bronson at the head of the squad. She checked Q over with rapid efficiency as a nurse squeezed in beside her and put an oxygen mask over Q's nose and mouth. Two other nurses hovered in the doorway, crash cart and emergency gurney ready.

“You were right, Bond,” said Bronson, as she hooked up a small yellow bag to Q’s IV port. “We’re lucky that we had the right strain of antivenom on hand.”

Before Bond could say anything, Bronson had nodded at the nurses, who crowded into the lift with a transport litter. Bond helped them maneuver Q onto it, but then their gloved hands were pushing him away.

“We’ve got him now,” Bronson said, as if sensing his will to fight them, to stay with Q at all costs, “we’ll take care of him.”

And then Q was gone, whisked away by the professionals at alarming speed.

The majority of the crowd dispersed--either out of decency or fear of reprimand--leaving behind two maintenance guys along with Tanner and Moneypenny. Tanner came into the lift to help Bond from the floor, while Moneypenny gathered the few items left behind: Bond’s coat, Q’s satchel and abandoned keyring. She didn’t touch the medical equipment strewn about, and Bond suddenly couldn’t look at it.

“Alright?” Tanner asked, as they exited the lift.

“Did Jack find him?” Bond asked, in lieu of answer.

“Yes,” Eve replied, touching his arm.

Bond wasn’t sure when, but one of them had put the shock blanket over him. He shrugged out of it.

“I want to see the bastard.”

“Not right now.”

Bond turned to her, fixed her with his most level stare.

“I want to see him,” he said again.

A look passed between Tanner and Eve, before she gave a stiff nod.

“Follow me.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

They wouldn’t let Bond into the room for the interrogation, probably fearing that they would be unable to stop him from beating the other man to death. And they were right, because if Bond would have been allowed within ten feet of him, the man would not be breathing for long.

Instead, Jack and another agent handled the questioning, Jack doing his quiet-but-threatening pace-the-floor prowl that made people nervous while the other agent volleyed question after question at the man. The entire inquisition ended up being useless, the man remaining silent on his identity, his mission, his organisation. They knew just as little as they did before, the only difference now being that Six would lock him away in a cell somewhere far away to rot.

The only satisfaction Bond got out of the entire ordeal was seeing that the man had already been bloodied, most likely a gift from Jack during the pursuit. Bond made a mental note to take him out for a pint as a thank you.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Tanner assured him.

Bond looked through the glass at the unnamed assailant. He sat there, grinning with his bloodied lip and nose, as if he were so clever. The man couldn’t see him through the mirror, but Bond could see the faint reflection of himself in the glass, and the smile that turned his mouth into gash on his face. He looked just as murderous as he felt, and maybe that was why Tanner stepped back from him, couldn’t look at him when Bond said, very clearly:

“We will.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

After meeting with Mallory for an unofficial “debrief”--mainly to assure him that he wasn’t about to go AWOL immediately--Bond went down to Medical with the intention of camping out there until he got answers or was physically incapacitated.

Fortunately, Dr. Bronson was waiting for him, sparing the staff the struggle of sedating him.

“How is he?”

“Stable,” she said, leading him down the hallway towards the recovery ward. “You did most of the hard work for us. Those first hours are critical. He’s lucky you were there.”  
Bond didn’t answer, unable to unclench his jaw. He knew that if he did, the words would be a tirade of self-loathing, because Q never would have been in the situation to start with if it hadn’t been for him.

“You know, for someone who makes a terrible patient, you’d make a decent doctor.”

He knew she was trying to be kind, maybe even humourous, but it just wasn’t helping. Maybe she sensed this, because Bronson quieted, leading him the rest of the way in silence.

They ended outside of one of the single rooms in Recovery, reserved for the most critical cases. Bond had been in once or twice over the years, but didn’t remember much of his time there. He certainly didn’t remember how white the room was, or the large window that allowed doctors and nurses to have a continuous visual of the patient.

Standing outside of it now, Bond wished he didn’t have such a clear view.

Q lay on the bed, surrounded by so many machines and wires and tubes that it just hurt to look at him. A full oxygen mask obstructed much of his face, but Bond could see that his eyes were closed. He looked peaceful, not at all in pain. It should have offered Bond some relief that Q was warm and comfortable and being cared for properly, but then he saw the catheter bag at the end of his bed, filled with blood, and Bond’s vision went dark at the edges.

He found himself gripping the edge of the window to keep himself steady.

“What the hell happened?” Bond hissed.

Dr. Bronson, to her credit, didn’t flinch.

“Snake venom is a nasty business. We’ve got him on the right antivenom, but the toxins still have to be flushed from the body. It’s especially hard on the kidneys. We’ve got him on temporary dialysis to help his body filter out the poison.”

She sounded so calm that Bond wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t look away from the blood, couldn’t imagine that this was somehow considered _okay_.

“What are his chances?”

Bronson sighed.

“I know you won’t believe me because of how it looks now, but his chances are very good. We had the correct antivenom on hand and administered it within a few hours of exposure. He’s out of danger in that regard. Now it’s just making sure that we protect his organs from further damage.”

Bond glanced up at Q’s weak heartbeat, chugging slowly across the monitor, and couldn’t believe her.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Bronson suggested. “We can put you right across the hall and we’ll wake you in a few hours with his progress.”

“Can I go in there instead?” Bond asked.

“Not right now. He needs rest.”

“I won’t bother him.”

“I know,” she said, and she was all sorts of gentle when she touched his elbow, like he was something breakable, “but why don’t we let him sleep like this for a little while longer. In the meantime, you should rest too.”

Bond didn’t know how she did it, but she’d somehow led him away from the window and into the room across the hall. It was dimly lit, its machines dark, unused. Bronson produced a pillow and a blanket, which she put into his arms.

“I’ll come get you in a few hours,” she said.

“Wait,” Bond said, before she left.

He set the blanket and pillows down on the bed, then reached into his rumpled suit pocket, producing Q’s glasses.

“For when he wakes up,” Bond explained, holding them out to her.

But she didn’t take them.

“I’ll wake you when he does, and you can give them to him yourself.”

With that, she was gone, leaving Bond alone in the dark, Q’s glasses a heavy weight in his hand.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond didn’t sleep.

He laid there and stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying not to think about anything, to clear his mind so that the adrenaline would leave him. But the more Bond tried to think about nothing, the more he found himself thinking about Q. It started like a movie reel in his mind, going back to the first time they met in the National Gallery, with Q murmuring something about _the inevitability of time_ just moments before their hands touched for the first time. They had lingered then, an unnecessary brush of skin on skin. Bond had always thought it a graceless fumble on their parts, with Q being new to the position and Bond having lost some of his fine motor skills to too much alcohol over the months prior.

But then it happened again and again, the touch not clumsy, but intended. Reassuring at times, when Bond was leaving, comforting when he returned. There had been many men and women in the meantime--both on and off missions--but none of them had a touch like Q.

Maybe that was why Bond never asked Q to dinner seriously, always teasing instead of being earnest, because he was afraid of losing that touch--losing _Q_ \--like he lost everything good and decent in his life.

Bond sighed out through his nose, closed his eyes and tried to sleep instead of wallowing in regret. But every time he felt himself drifting off from his guilty thoughts, he was back in the lift, listening to Q’s rasping, dying breaths. Bond wasn’t sure how long he tortured himself by alternating between being awake and feeling guilty and being almost asleep and feeling helpless, but after what felt like an eternity, a nurse came into the room to rouse him.

“If you’d like to see him for a few minutes, he’s awake,” she said, and Bond was up and out in the hallway outside of Q’s room in seconds.

Bond wasn’t sure what sort of picture he painted, but he could guess: wrinkled suit, mussed up hair, a manic gaze. He probably smelled terrible too, but Bond couldn’t care less in that moment, and the nurse politely didn’t say anything.

“Five minutes,” she said, swiping her key card to unlock the door.

And then she stepped aside, allowing Bond to enter the room alone.

The lights had been dimmed a bit, but the machines were all still lit up and beeping and whirring. Q was still attached to all of them, and about six different hanging IV bags, but it seemed there had been some improvement in the past few hours. His monitor readouts were much stronger, his fever diminished, and the full oxygen mask replaced with a standard cannula.

And he was awake.

Bond picked up the guest chair from the corner of the room and brought it close to the bed. Q squinted at him, reminding Bond that he probably couldn’t see much in his current state. Removing Q’s glasses from his suit jacket pocket, Bond unfolded them, then leaned over and placed them gently onto Q’s face, making sure the arms of the glasses were over Q’s ears properly.

He looked even more poorly with them, somehow, the dark frames contrasting harshly with his white complexion. But Q’s eyes were focused and aware and maybe, just maybe, he was going to be okay after all.

“Hey,” Bond said.

Q gave him a very tired smile in lieu of reply.

“Throat hurt?”

Q managed a small nod.

“It’ll get better. Dr. Bronson will patch you up in no time,” Bond said.

There was so much more that he wanted to say, but Q’s eyes were drooping, and he looked so, so tired, that Bond refrained.

He glanced down at Q’s hand on the bed, so fragile covered in tape and tubes, and thought about reaching out and touching him, like all those times before when he could have but didn’t. Bond hesitated, worrying about hurting him, but Q was watching him, and his fingers twitched, the index curling slightly, as if beckoning Bond closer.

With the care that Bond had shown to pressure-sensitive bombs, he touched his fingers to Q’s thumb, holding it loosely so not to hurt him. Q hummed softly at the contact, as if he hadn’t been content until that moment, and was almost immediately asleep.

The nurse came in not long after, her silhouette a silent entreaty for Bond to leave. Again, Bond wondered what sort of picture he painted: MI6’s most ruthless killing machine clinging to its Quartermaster by his fingertips. Was it as sad and desperate as Bond imagined?

With all of his strength, Bond pulled his hand away from Q’s. Then he carefully removed his glasses and set them on the bedside for when he woke again. He hesitated, feeling a compulsion to touch Q’s hair, to kiss him, very softly, on the forehead, but the nurse was still there, and Bond resisted.

When they were back out in the well-lit hallway, the nurse turned to him. Her nametag read _Susan_.

“If you’d like to get some more rest, the room is yours,” she said, pointing back at the room where Bond had been pretending to sleep. “Or we can call you when he’s awake again.”

Bond shook his head.

“I’ve got something to do. I won’t be reachable by phone.”

“Dr. Bronson--”

“Doesn’t need to worry about anyone but him right now,” Bond said, nodding at Q through the window. “Take good care of him.”

Before Susan could say anything else, Bond had already turned and made his way down the hallway towards the exit.

He had a job to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my patient BETAs [beginte](http://beginte.tumblr.com/) and [boffin1710](http://boffin1710.tumblr.com/) and to everyone who offered me encouragement when working on this chapter. I was going absolutely mad during the editing process, so thank you for keeping me from throwing this into a fire where I think it belongs.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond was gone for twenty-three days.

When he returned from his unofficial holiday, Bond had a suntan and healing wounds on the knuckles of both of his hands, but overall, he had managed to come back in one piece. He was also in a cheerful mood, which he often wasn’t after so long away and so many hours of tedious air travel.

Bond supposed it meant he should take personal holidays more often.

Instead of dallying at his flat, Bond only stopped in only for the essentials--shower, change of clothes, and to drop off his meagre luggage--before heading immediately to Six. He took a cab instead of the car, choosing the front entrance instead of his usual method of entry through the garage. Bond told himself that it wasn’t because of what happened, that the cab was more convenient because of the time of day, and that the front entrance made the most sense, what with it being closer to the street. He wasn’t going to admit to himself that he didn’t think he could be in that lift again.

He had already relieved that nightmare too many times over the past few weeks.

Eve got him in with Mallory right away, who shouted abuse at him for a good twenty minutes. Bond sat through it silently and did not disclose where he had been, though from the vein in Mallory’s forehead, Bond had a feeling he had some idea. Maybe that was why he got a slap on the wrist instead of the formal reprimand and license revocation that Mallory had threatened.

After all, no one came after their own and got away with it.

He tried to look contrite when leaving, but Bond knew he didn’t quite manage it. Eve sat at her desk, waiting for him with her arms crossed.

“You could have called,” she told him, “or at least sent a postcard.”

“Didn’t you get my love letters while I was away?” Bond asked.

“Oh, you mean the trail of bodies we had to clean up?” she countered, but there was no anger or heat to her, telling Bond that she, like Mallory, approved of his actions but still had to give him shite just for appearance’s sake.

“Thought that was your style, Moneypenny,” Bond said.

She pursed her lips and gave him a look.

“You could have at least done a better job disposing of them.”

“Could have, should have, would have,” Bond replied.

She shook her head.

“When is Jack coming back?” she asked.

“Oh, was he on holiday as well?” Bond asked, feigning innocence, as if Jack hadn’t been the one at his side for the past few weeks, keeping him on a saner warpath than he would have managed had he been alone.

Eve just shook her head again, but this time she was smiling.

“The only reason you both aren’t out the job is because you managed to take down a huge terrorist cell.”

“Don’t know what you mean. I was on holiday,” Bond said.

He was one step out the door when Eve asked:

“Have you been by to see Q?”

Bond stopped in the doorway.

Honestly, the only thing he had wanted to do for the past twenty-three days was see Q. The moment he’d left, stepped foot on the plane bound for Indonesia, he had wanted to turn right around and go back to Medical, to sit at his bedside until he was well again, so that he could see with his own eyes that Q was _okay_. But then he told himself that he was going for a reason, that no one would ever come close to hurting Q again if he killed them all. And that was what he had done.

And now, after twenty-three days of radio silence from Six, Bond had his chance to see Q, but hadn’t. In truth, he had been too anxious to see him the moment he landed on British soil two hours ago, too nervous to go to Q-Branch the second he arrived at Six, because he knew that everything about their relationship was going to change.

How it would change, he didn’t know, and it was that uncertainty that kept holding him back.

“Ah, well, you should,” Eve said, when Bond’s silence had gone on too long.

“How is he?”

“The first few days after you left were touch and go,” Eve admitted. “He kept asking for you, you know.”

Bond felt like someone had punched him in the gut. Imagining Q, so pale, so fragile, connected to all those tubes and wires, half-conscious, asking for him… it was almost too much to bear.

“And now?” Bond asked, round the hard thing in his throat.

“I will give you some warning...he wasn’t thrilled with your love letters,” she replied, the corner of her mouth curved in a smile. “I think he’s more of a tea and chocolates sort of fellow.”

“Right,” Bond said.

“Or someone who might appreciate a nice dinner.”

“Right,” Bond said again, nodding.

“Oh, and Bond,” Eve called to him again, before he could exit the office.

This time he turned round, and there must have been something in his expression he couldn’t hide from her, because Eve’s voice was all encouragement when she said:

“Good luck.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond went down to Q-Branch, opting for the stairs instead of the lift.

Again, he told himself it had nothing to do with what had happened, assuring himself that it was because the stairs gave him more time to think about what he was going to say to Q when they saw one another. But it gave him almost _too much_ time to think, because by the time he made it to the lowest basement, he had started thinking maybe he’d just leave for the day and come back again tomorrow to do this.

But the door opened as a boffin was leaving the Branch, and Bond found his feet moving him forward without consent from his brain.

The entire room was quiet, a strange occurrence for Q-Branch, which was usually hectic with activity. But today, there was no sense of urgency or distress, just the quiet hum of machinery and people typing and talking softly over headsets to various agents dispatched round the globe.

At the front of the room, where Q usually worked at a standing desk, Bond saw R. He caught the eye of Q’s second-in-command and made his way toward her.

“R,” he greeted politely.

“Double-Oh Seven,” she said. “I trust you had an enjoyable holiday?”

Bond slipped his hands into his pockets, hiding the healing cuts and bruises on his knuckles.

“It was very sunny.”

She did a once-up, once-down of him and his very obvious suntan and hummed thoughtfully. MI6 could be very good about not saying anything to wayward agents when they went rogue for the right reasons.

“I’m sure,” is all she said.

Her eyes were tired behind her glasses--testament, no doubt, to her increased responsibilities while the Quartermaster recovered--but her hijab and clothes were neat and pressed, giving her a put-together look that Q barely managed on a good day. Bond looked past her, scanning the room for Q’s mismatched, rumpled form, but didn’t see him.

“He’s in his office,” R said, before he could ask. “Medical’s orders that he be on light duty for another week or so since we can’t get him to stay home and rest.”

“How’s that working out?”

R gave him an unamused look.

“I’d say talk some sense into him, but you’re worse than he is,” R said.

“Flatterer,” Bond said.

She shooed him away in the direction of Q’s corner office, going back to her own work. One or two boffins looked up as he passed, but none of their eyes lingered too long. For that, Bond was grateful. He felt like what he was about to do was so obvious and he didn’t need the judgement of an audience.

Bond went to Q’s door, finding it partially cracked. Still, he knocked, using the tips of his fingers instead of his split knuckles.

“Come in.”

Doing as he was bid, Bond stepped into the office. Q sat at his desk, partially obscured by his dual monitors and teetering stacks of file folders. He looked up as Bond entered, glasses reflecting the light of his computer screen.

“Bond,” he said, sounding all business-as-usual, “I was wondering when you’d make it back. Have a nice holiday?”

“It was quite satisfying,”

“I’m sure,” Q said, an amused smile tugging at his mouth.

When Bond didn’t say anything else, Q stood up from his chair and walked round to the front of his desk. He seemed healthier than the last time Bond had seen him, though anyone would look better when not lingering on Death’s doorstep. It gave Bond some relief, though, to see Q awake and upright of his own volition, no trace of pain or fatigue in him. Q was, of course, still too pale and too thin for Bond’s liking, looking all the paler and thinner with the white gauze round his neck, barely concealed by the collar of his button down.

Bond didn’t know what to say. He could always think of something nonchalant or sarcastic or inappropriate, but the words just wouldn’t come. All he could do was look at the bandage around Q’s throat, feeling overwhelmingly guilty. Q saw him looking--it would be impossible not to notice--and touched the bandage.

“It’s not as bad as it looks. It’s just the last few days of healing, so I was told to keep it covered,” Q explained, and then, as if an afterthought, “the doctors say it won’t even scar.”

“That’s good,” Bond managed to say.

Q tilted his head. His eyes were clear--not made hazy with pain or medication--and they were searching Bond’s expression for something.

“Are you alright?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“You should have, but you didn’t,” Q said, reminding Bond that, no, he hadn’t.

“Are you alright?”

“Much better that I’m not pissing in a bag anymore. Really changes your whole perspective on things,” Q said, and Bond knew that he was trying to be funny, but he couldn’t manage to smile, not when he could so clearly recall the catheter bag filled with blood, the dialysis machines whirring at Q’s bedside.

“Bond?”

He realised he hadn’t said anything.

“Glad you’re better,” Bond told him.

All at once, his courage escaped him, so Bond turned toward the door with the intention to leave as quickly as he had come.

“Were you worried?” Q asked his back.

Bond knew that it was teasing, that Q was giving him the chance to go back to how it always had been between them: all that looking and never touching and all that conversation without saying the words that really mattered. But how could it ever go back after what had happened? After Bond knew that Q had woken and called for him and he hadn’t been there?

Maybe that’s why he couldn’t help the single, honest word that fell out of his mouth.

“Yes.”

It felt like balancing on a knife edge, knowing he would fall, but not knowing which way.

The silence that followed his declaration seemed excruciatingly loud. Bond was very aware of his own breath, and Q’s behind him, and then Q’s footsteps as he came closer to him, followed by the audible _click_ of the office door closing, shutting them off from the quiet hum of the Branch outside.

Q then placed himself in front of the closed door, as if it wouldn’t be enough to keep Bond from leaving unless he, too, were physically in front of it. Suddenly, Bond felt very claustrophobic: the room too small, the two of them so very close...

“You know,” Q began, “I never got the chance to thank you.”

Words felt like gravel in Bond’s mouth.

“For what?”

“For saving my life.”

Bond suddenly wished he could be anywhere else, anywhere where Q was not looking at him so softly.

“You would have done the same for me.”

“Of course,” Q said, without hesitation, “but still. Thank you. Dr. Bronson said that if you hadn’t been there, I would have died.”

“If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place.”

Q opened his mouth to retort, but Bond cut him off.

“He was after me.”

If there was one thing he’d learned in the past few weeks, it had been that he had been the target all along. It would have been easier--so much easier--if Q had been the objective from the start, but knowing that they had been after Bond, that Q had been nothing but collateral damage, made it ten times worse. Because the truth was plain as day.

If it hadn’t been for Bond, Q never would have been hurt.

“I know,” Q said softly.

Q moved away from the door and to his desk. There, he produced a folder from one of the stacks and opened it for Bond to see. It was a photograph of the man with the blow dart gun, who had given away nothing during his interrogation, not even a name. At the sight of him--knowing that he was still alive--Bond clenched his hands into fists in his pockets, feeling the skin split at the healing wounds around his knuckles.

“We got him to talk,” Q explained.

“How?”

Q smiled enigmatically.

“It’s not important.”

Bond wondered what he had done, but didn’t think it was the right time to ask.

“Then you know I’m at fault.”

Q closed the file folder and set it back onto his desk.

“Do you really believe that?”

“It’s the truth.”

Q sighed.

“Bond, I know you forget, but I work for Six too. There’s inherent risk to anything and everything--”

“But it was _my fault_. It had nothing to do with you! You could have died! Because of me!”

Bond didn’t know where the anger came from, but it was there, as it had been for weeks now, simmering just under his skin. It rushed to the surface at Q’s nonchalance, because Bond could still feel Q struggling to breathe against him, the shivers that wracked his body. The mantra _allhisfaultallhisfaultallhisfault_ pulsated in the back of his mind with every heartbeat. It made him want to run as fast as he could out of the room and away from Six, away from _Q_ , so he couldn’t hurt him again.

“I could have died, but I didn’t,” Q said softly, somehow cutting through all the noise in Bond’s head, “because of you.”

Q reached out and touched the sleeve of Bond’s jacket, his fingers skipping down, brushing over the back of Bond’s hand. The touch felt intimate, so intimate, as if they had taken off all of their clothes and stood there, bare to one another.

It was the most vulnerable Bond had ever felt in his entire life.

“I couldn’t have lived with myself,” Bond heard himself say.

He had thought about it every day that he had been away, every time he stood before a man begging for his life and did distasteful things to him to get the next name. The only thing that had kept him from losing himself--from enjoying the torture and the bloodshed too much--was that he had a home to return to, a person waiting for him.

“James.”

Bond felt his heart skip three beats, because Q had never called him by his first name before, and because Bond had never heard him speak so tenderly, so pleadingly in the past three years.

“Please don’t blame yourself,” Q said, looking very sad, “ _I_ can’t live with myself if you do. This wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault.”

Bond couldn’t look at him, didn’t think he could without losing whatever thread of self-control he had left. He had to get out.

He couldn’t breathe in there.

Wrenching his hand away from Q, Bond went to the door and opened it. Before he could stop himself, he had left Q’s office, and was halfway to the exit of the branch. He was very aware of the eyes on him, the curious murmur that rose up after his retreating back.

And that’s what it was: a retreat.

Immediately, he felt like an idiot. His hand rested on the cross bar, ready to push out of Branch to hide and go lick his wounds somewhere private. But Bond had never done what he’d come to do, only said all the words he’d meant to keep to himself. So he turned right around, and marched back to Q’s office.

The door was open wide this time, left that way from his exit. R stood next to Q, who still kept his position leant up against his desk. When Bond appeared in the doorway, both of them looked up: R somewhat annoyed, Q somewhere between exhausted and disappointed.

“Dinner,” Bond said, loudly, gracelessly.

Q blinked. R did too. Bond heard the room behind him go quiet as the minions in the bullpen strained to hear.

“What?” Q asked.

“Dinner,” Bond said again, and then, realising his lack of manners, rephrased: “That is, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“Oh,” Q said.

R cleared her throat.

“ _Oh,_ ,” Q said again, but this time, a colour came to him that Bond found particularly fetching.

R excused herself, closing the door behind her, leaving Q and Bond alone again. Bond suddenly felt like a teenager, anxious for Q’s answer. He’d done it right this time--minus his awkwardness, of course--and not phrased the request as a tease or the punchline of a joke. Maybe Q realised this, that it was different than all those times before, because his usual spit-fire turn-down never came. Instead, it was just as graceless as Bond’s question:

“Yeah, dinner’s good. That’s. Yes, good.”

They looked at each other for half a second before looking at other things in the room, suddenly fascinated with file cabinets and peeling carpet and dusty wires.

Q cleared his throat.

“So,” Q said, in a tone that told Bond he was taking over the situation in his Quartermaster-Knows-Best manner, something which Bond appreciated when he had little strength to do it himself. “Saturday, seven o’clock? You pick me up from mine? Barring matters of national security that might force us to reschedule, of course.”

“Of course,” Bond agreed.

Q smiled, and Bond did too.

“Then it’s a date.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

On Saturday--after three agonising days spent alternating between running the treadmill into the ground at Six and obsessively cleaning every surface in his already pristine flat to make the time pass more quickly--Bond pulled up to the kerb outside of an ordinary-looking terrace house at half til seven.

There was very little street parking, but Bond managed to wedge the Jag between a hatchback and a compact car with two child seats in the back. He doubled-checked the address on the satnav, just to be sure that he was in the right place, since he didn’t see Q’s Corsa anywhere on the street. According to the device, he had found the right location, so Bond turned off the ignition and got out of the car.

Number Nine was Q’s, a modest brown two-up two-down dwelling with three stair to the front door. It looked like all the others on the street, the doors and roof colours all the same. At first, Bond wondered what MI6’s Quartermaster was doing living in such a place, but the longer Bond looked at the street, the more he felt his eyes skipping over the repetitive nature of the buildings, and it all suddenly made sense. What better place to hide than in plain sight? Even Q’s choice of car made sense, helping blend him into the monotony of the neighbourhood.

It was actually rather clever.

He knocked, feeling a little nervous. It had been a long time since he’d been out to dinner with someone when it wasn’t for work. It had been even longer since he’d done it with someone he actually liked.

Q opened the door before Bond could think on it too much longer.

The first thing Bond noticed right away was his hair: wild with its usual volume, but tackled with a comb or product to give it an intentional messiness instead of Q’s usual brand of carelessness. It looked soft, begging to have someone’s fingers run through it.

“Hi,” Q said, drawing Bond’s gaze from his hair to his face.

His usual chunky glasses had been swapped out for slimmer, more sophisticated rimless frames. They opened Q’s face, his exceptionally green eyes no longer obscured, and Bond wondered why he didn’t wear them more often.

Speaking of things Q didn’t, but should, wear more often…Q was clad a dark green button down and a pair of fitted trousers that accentuated his lean figure. Bond had never seen him wear anything that actually fit him before, and had a hard time looking away.

But then Q cleared his throat and Bond tried to cover for the fact that he had been staring, thinking he’d say something suave, maybe even a little witty, but instead, all that came out of his mouth was:

“Hi.”

Q looked like he was holding back a laugh as held the door open in silent invitation for Bond to come inside. Bond did, making sure to wipe his feet on the mat so he didn’t track ice inside.

“Sorry to say, I’m not ready just yet…” Q said, looking uncertainly shy at their closeness in the narrow foyer. “I, um...I didn’t expect you so early.”

Bond glanced at his watch. It was only 18:35.

He was a lot early.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise the time. I can... I can wait in the car?” Bond offered.

Q looked horrified at the suggestion.

“No!” he said, flushing at the loudness of his voice, before adding, softer this time: “no, it’s fine, I just...five minutes?”

“Take your time. Really. Reservations aren’t for another hour,” Bond assured him.

“Great, that’s,” Q paused, running a hand through his lovely hair as if he were nervous, Bond following the gesture with his eyes, his fingers itching with the desire to touch those curls himself. “Good. Why don’t you wait in the sitting room? I’ll be done in just a minute.”

Bond awkwardly put his hands into his coat pockets as Q gestured towards his sitting room just off to the right of the foyer.

“Also, if you see a gray ball of fluff, that’s Marzipan. Don’t try to pet her, she’ll bite your hand off.”

“Marzipan?”

“The shelter chose it and it just stuck...Jacques is somewhere around here too. He’ll probably try to trip you at some point. Don’t take it personally. He’s a little shit.”

For some reason, that made Bond chuckle.

“I’ll do my best,” Bond said.

Q loitered in the doorway for a minute, somewhat awkwardly, but then straightened and said:

“Right, I’m getting ready. Five minutes.”

“Take your time,” Bond said again.

Q disappeared, leaving Bond to his own devices.

Out of two parts curiosity and one part habit, Bond took the opportunity to snoop around. He’d never been inside Q’s home before--never invited and never let himself in despite all the years of knowing Q--so it was his first chance to really get to know his enigmatic Quartermaster.

The house was nothing special on the inside: standard layout of a two-up-two-down, but the place felt loved and lived in. Everything from the mismatched pictures on the walls to the worn-but-well-cared-for rugs to the warm colour palette soothed Bond from the outside in.

It was only when Q’s footsteps disappeared upstairs, Bond began looking round the space with a more discerning eye.

Q’s living room was small, but cozy, its walls covered in built-ins filled with books and photographs and various ephemera. Bond walked along the wall, reading the spines of the books, finding his favourite authors among others he had never heard of before. Nestled in between gaps in the alphabetisation--because _of course_ Q would alphabetise his library--were photographs of people who must have meant a great deal to Q.

Several contained a smiling woman with black curly hair and a handsome man with wire-rimmed glasses. There were others, too: old, young, male and female and perhaps a few in between, all of various ethnicities, taken in places all over the world. Q appeared in none of them, so Bond could not date the photographs or figure out the relationships that Q had with these people.

One did catch his eye: a group of younger people all gathered round, smiling at the camera, surrounded by robotics equipment. Bond looked for Q in this photo, but couldn’t find him in any of the youthful faces there.

“My old robotics team at uni,” Q said from behind him.

Bond turned, saw Q standing there with two tumblers of ice and amber liquid. He had donned a smart-looking jacket, which buttoned at his waist, slimming him to unbelievable proportions. Bond took the proffered glass--definitely needing the drink if Q was going to be looking like _that_ all night--and their fingers brushed. He thought about lingering, about saying something about the nice fit of Q’s clothes and how lovely he looked, but the photographs called for Bond’s attention. He could tell Q how good he looked all night, and planned to, but this was his first opportunity to really know more about Q, and he wasn’t about to waste it.

“You’re not in the photo,” he said conversationally.

“I’m the one who took it,” Q replied, and then added, “we did good work for about two years or so before we were disbanded.”

“Disbanded?”

“Perhaps we were doing some things that made certain agencies rather nervous.”

Bond grinned.

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” Q said, but didn’t elaborate, “and most of them work for those various government agencies now.”

“Really? Which ones?”

“State secrets. Very hush hush,” Q said, and when Bond glanced back at him, he saw Q smiling over the rim of his glass in a way that made Bond wonder if he was teasing or telling the truth.

“What about this one?” Bond asked, pointing at another photograph, this one of two young children.

“R’s girls,” Q said, and looked a little guilty, “I shouldn’t even have it out. Risk and all...in case this place is compromised...but they’re just so cute, I couldn’t help it.”

“They look like trouble.”

“Oh, they are. I think that’s why R’s so good with all of you Double-Ohs. She’s had lots of practice.”

Bond chose not to rise to the bait, finding the conversation far too interesting to deviate from, and nodded at a picture of the man and woman who had originally caught his eye. He was going to ask who they were, but caught sight of Q’s reflection in the glass, and saw the resemblance immediately.

“Your parents?” Bond asked.

“Yeah,” Q said, and then pointed at another photograph on a shelf further down. “There they are again. That’s outside of our old house.”

Bond looked at the framed picture, at the man and woman standing before a beautifully restored MGB in emerald green. Between them, a child, maybe four years old, each of them holding one of his chubby hands in theirs.

“Is that you?”

Q walked away and Bond turned in time to see him sit down on the sofa. A very angry grey cat glared from the arm of the chair next to him. Q petted the creature, whose gold eyes closed at his affection.

“Was this your motive all along? Get invited inside my house just to find some old embarrassing pictures of me?”

Bond went and joined him on the sofa, close enough that they were almost pressed together at the thigh and knee. Gold eyes opened and glared daggers at him, but the cat did not move from its spot, so Bond thought he was safe for now.

“Not embarrassing. You’re cute in that one,” Bond said.

Shaking his head, Q remained silent and took a drink. Bond did too, letting the good scotch burst with flavour on his tongue.

“You have good scotch.”

“It can be said that I have good taste.”

Bond grinned suggestively, even going so far as to waggle his eyebrows a bit, and Q laughed--a sudden, beautiful, surprising laugh--at Bond’s antics, before he sobered and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bond said.

He let his eyes go back to the shelves, looking over the various photographs and trinkets, some of which, he recognised.

“Wait a second, is that--”

Bond stood up and went back over to the shelves, crouching down to look at the item on the lower shelf more closely.

“That stupid thing you brought back from Bali? Unfortunately, yes.”

It was stupid, something made out of a coconut and painted in bright colours for tourists. It was the gaudiest thing Bond could find, and he bought it just because he knew it would annoy Q that he could bring that back but not his gadgetry.

“You kept it?”

Bond turned back to look at Q, and just in time to see him colour.

“You gave it to me.”

“You kept it,” Bond said again, but more to himself.

“The cats like to play with it sometimes,” Q said loudly, as if he were trying to justify keeping it.

But on the shelves, Bond saw that there were more of the gifts he had brought Q back from his travels: a snow globe from Austria that contained Schlossberg castle, a blue ceramic bowl of Talavera from Mexico, a hand-painted _kokeshi_ from Japan. They had been interspersed with Q’s photographs of precious people, woven in between his carefully alphabetised books.

He picked up one of the items--a carved wooden antelope he’d brought back from after a particularly long stint in Kenya--and held it in his hands. Bond remembered finding it in a market when he’d been searching for an evasive gunrunner. He had carried the thing around in his pocket for the duration of the mission, touching it often, thinking it would make a nice little memento for Q to keep on his desk. He remembered being a little hurt when he never saw it again.

But _this_. This made up for it entirely.

Bond turned back to Q, grinning. Q made a face.

“Oh, no, no, no don’t let this go to your head. So I kept a few things--”

“You kept all the things.”

“I didn’t. I absolutely threw away many things--”

“Oh, like what?”

Q downed his drink in one go and stood up, straightening out his already-immaculate shirt and jacket.

“Like that...that _thing_ from Croatia. You know? That thing that was probably cursed?”

Bond remembered it well. It had been the scariest thing he could find. He had thought it a fitting gift for his return on Halloween last year.

“It was not cursed,” Bond replied, and then went deadpan, “unless you really threw it away. That’s how you get cursed.”

Q looked like he believed Bond for about half a second, and then he made a face.

“Shut up, no it’s not!”

“It’s absolutely how you get cursed.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Or am I?”

“I trust you about as far as I can throw you.”

“That doesn’t count. With those arms, you couldn’t throw anyone very far.”

Q looked up to the ceiling, as if for divine intervention, but he was smiling.

“Are we going tonight or not?”

“Okay, okay,” Bond said, laughing as Q left the room for the foyer.

Bond put the antelope back up on the shelf where he had found it. It was only then that Bond realised he had originally started bringing back tchotchkes as a joke--the more ridiculous, the better--but that over time he’d forgotten all about it, and started bringing back real souvenirs of some quality and value.

And it seemed that Q hadn’t minded the gifts, jokes or not, if the mixture of them on his shelves told Bond anything. Maybe he really had kept them, not because he liked them, per se, but because it was Bond that had brought them back.

“You’d better not still be snooping in there,” Q called to him.

“I’m absolutely snooping,” Bond replied, as he left the sitting room and met Q in the hallway outside.

Q was busy picking up a few things from the stand at the door--keys, wallet, phone--and Bond took that opportunity to have another appreciative look at him. He honestly wished Q would dress like this a bit more often. Hiding such a body beneath such shapeless cardigans had to be a crime.

“You clean up nicely.”

Q’s ears went a little red at Bond’s compliment.

“Just don’t look at my socks,” Q mumbled.

Of course, Bond looked down. He hadn’t realised it before, but Q didn’t have shoes on yet. One of his socks was orange striped, the other a pattern of blue polka dots. It was actually kind of cute. Bond wondered if he had been hiding an eclectic collection of socks under his hideous trousers all these years.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Bond said, before his brain could catch up with his mouth.

Q laughed, a little nervously.

“That I don’t own a pair of adult socks?”

Q wiggled his toes in the outrageous socks, and Bond laughed too.

“You’re right, shouldn’t be surprised at all,” Bond said.

“Hey, I do plenty of other adult things. Like work a job and pay a mortgage,” Q replied, as he slipped his mismatched feet into a pair of sleek black oxfords, “so my socks can be childish if I want them to be.”

“As long as your bed isn’t a rocket ship, then I’d say you’re doing just fine,” Bond said.

“First of all, I never had a rocket ship bed growing up, which would have made me a pretty cool five year-old in my circle of two friends--”

“Imaginary friends, I presume--”

“Secondly,” Q interjected, with a raised eyebrow that told Bond not to interrupt, “what kind of bed I have is none of your business, so you’d better think of better way to proposition me if that was the intention.”

“You wound me,” Bond replied. “I don’t proposition without taking someone to dinner first.”

“Well then we’d better get going,” Q said, as he grabbed his coat with a playful grin, “I’m starving.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond thought the evening might be awkward with all of their history but the shift between what they used to be and what they were becoming was surprisingly easy. The only real difference was that Bond made a conscious effort to not be such an arsehole and tried to keep the innuendo to a minimum. Q, of course, picked up on it right away.

“You’re being a gentleman,” Q said, not asked, when they pulled up the restaurant’s valet check.

“Because I am a gentleman,” Bond said.

He even came round to help Q from the passenger side, opening the door and offering a hand, which Q took. His hands were cold, and Bond made a mental note that he would turn the heat on higher on the ride back.

“It’s a little unnerving,” Q admitted.

“Why is that?” Bond asked.

He kept one hand politely at the small of Q’s back as they made their way inside the restaurant, only pulling away when he helped Q out of his outer jacket at coat check.

“You’re only like this when you’ve done something wrong,” Q told him, once they were past coat check and on their way to the host stand.

“I am not,” Bond said.

Q hummed, his tone doubtful, but he leaned back into Bond’s hand all the same as the _maître d'hôtel_ took the information for their reservation.

“I really didn’t do anything,” Bond whispered in Q’s ear, as they were lead to their table.

He smelled nice--clean aftershave, maybe a touch of cologne that Bond thought he ought to wear more often--and Bond had to resist leaning closer. Maybe Q knew, because he turned his head, just a bit, brushing a soft curl against Bond’s cheek as he did so.

“I know,” he said, “I’m just teasing you.”

“You little shit,” Bond said, momentarily forgetting his vow to be appropriate and suave.

Q laughed, covering his mouth with his hand when it made several heads turn in their direction.

Fortunately, the looks didn’t linger, what with Bond having pulled strings to get a nice table in a more private location in the corner of the restaurant. It was only after they had been seated and the _maître d_ had left that Q asked:

“So should I ask who you had to kill to get a table here?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Q rolled his eyes.

“I’m not an idiot. This place is probably booked out a year or so in advance.”

“And how do you know that?”

“There’s this little thing called _using your eyes_. Contrary to what people might think of me existing off prepackaged foodstuffs and pot noodles, I do know a five-star restaurant when I see one.”

Bond held up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, fair enough,” he said, “but I didn’t kill anyone. I just called in a favour--”

“A murder favour?”

“No, but,” Bond paused, looking thoughtful, “now that you mention it, I wasn’t very specific about the no-murdering part of the deal...”

Q covered his mouth to smother his laughter, his eyes twinkling beneath his fringe.

“So I guess we should probably enjoy this meal, in case there was a murder involved. I hope you like French food,” Bond said.

“Fortunately, I happen to love French food,” Q replied.

A server appeared at their elbows with a polite greeting and their menus. He filled up their water glasses as he offered some recommendations for particular wines and entrees, then politely stepped away to give them a few moments to make their decision.

Bond flipped through the menu, seeing that it was entirely in French. He wondered if Q would need help, but he didn’t seem to be affected by the non-English menu.

“I think we should order wine,” Q said.

“You read my mind.”

“Red or white?”

“I go both ways,” Bond said.

Q looked at him over the top of his menu. Bond couldn’t see his mouth, but his eyes were smiling.

“I do, too,” Q said, in a way that told Bond they weren’t necessarily talking only about their preference of wine, “but if you had to choose for tonight?”

Bond didn’t have to think on it too long. He didn’t want something light and sweet. Not tonight.

“A red, I think,” Bond said.

“I like the way you think,” Q said, turning the page of his menu. “Any preference on the fruit? Red or black?”

“Surprise me.”

And Q did, selecting one of the more moderately priced, but delicious, wines on the menu, then ordering both it and his meal in flawless French, much to the delight of the waitstaff. Bond followed suit, and it was only once their server had departed that Bond said, in French:

“I didn’t know you spoke French fluently.”

“I never realised you had such an accent. Was your teacher from Alsace?” Q asked.

Bond blinked, remembering his teacher at Eton who had been so strict with his grammar and pronunciation, and how she had often spoken fondly of Alsace.

“How did you know?”

“I’ve got an ear for it.”

Q smiled enigmatically, almost magnetically, and Bond found himself drawn in immediately. He realised then how very little he knew about Q.

“You sound like a native speaker,” Bond said, this time in English. “Were you born there?”

“I was,” Q said, “but I am a British national. At least according to my passport.”

“I didn’t know,” Bond said, and then added what he had been thinking all along: “I don’t really know anything about you.”

“There’s not much to know, really,” Q replied.

Their server came back with the wine, poured them each a healthy glass, and then left the bottle at their table before he left. Once he was out of earshot, Bond leaned forward.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It really is. Nothing like your interesting life. So ordinary it would bore you to tears.”

“Try me.”

Q sighed as if he were put out, but his smile told Bond he would indulge him.

“Short version: born in Paris, raised in London. Went to school, did my A-Levels in French and Maths. Went to university, got several degrees--”

“Several?

“I am a man of many talents.”

“Such as?”

Q winced and looked apologetic.

“For Her Eyes Only, I’m afraid...”

“I see,” Bond said, understanding immediately. Q must have been a successful student, maybe even one of some fame in his field if he couldn’t even disclose his majors. Bond had a hunch, but knew that he would never be able to prove it until Q retired or died, his true identity too important. “Then what?”

“Worked a boring job or two, then worked a not-so-boring job or two. Bought a terrace house and adopted two cats. See? Very boring. I’ve never even really traveled or did much else aside from school and work.”

“No hobbies?” Bond asked. “Outside of what you do at work, I mean.”

Q looked thoughtful.

“Reading, I guess. I tried gardening for a bit, but I’m shite at it. Better at knitting, actually.”

“Knitting,” Bond repeated.

Q gave him a look as if he dared Bond to make fun of him.

“It’s soothing.”

“It’s _knitting_ ,” Bond ribbed him with a grin, “you’re such a grandma.”

“Well, forget your Christmas present. No muffler for you.”

“Well, forget I said anything.”

Q laughed.

“So you knit and have two cats,” Bond said, “you are definitely a grandma.”

“And I live in a terrace house on the most boring street in London. Here’s to being dull and ordinary,” Q said, picking up his glass.

Bond followed suit, tipping his glass to Q’s before they both drank.

“It’s not all that bad,” Bond said.

“You’re right. The aftertaste is nice,” Q said, swirling the wine in his glass.

“I meant the terrace house.”

“Oh, but it’s _terrible_. Everyone is in bed by eight and always makes a fuss if I forget to pull the bins in,” Q said, and then shrugged, “but, at least it’s mine. That’s something, I guess.”

“It’s more than I have,” Bond said.

Bond couldn’t believe he had said the words aloud, and wished that he could take them back. But Q looked at him, not sad or pitying or anything, just looked in a way that made Bond feel _seen_. For some reason, it made more words come of their own volition, as if he knew he could talk and someone would listen. Really listen.

So he talked about his flat having been sold off one too many times, his things mostly in storage and maybe, because of it, how he started owning less and less things as the years went on. And then, how, after the loss of the old Aston Martin, Bond hadn’t even gotten a new car, preferring to let because he just didn’t feel attachment to much of anything anymore. And maybe he didn’t _want_ to feel attachment to anything anymore, not when it had always lead to disappointment.

It was dreary conversation for a date, Bond realised. Far, far too heavy to bring up when they should have been having a good time. But Q didn’t seem to mind, his thoughtful expression deepening the longer Bond spoke.

“You should let me fix the car,” Q said, when Bond had finished.

“What?”

“The car,” Q said. “I could probably restore her. And if I can’t manage it, a few of my guys in R&D are avid car enthusiasts. I’m sure, between the three or four of us, we could restore her to her old glory.”

“Thought she was just a steering wheel?” Bond asked.

“A steering wheel and maybe half a chassis. And something that might either be the bonnet or the boot…I’m still not entirely certain. They’ve got her stored out in one of our bunkers in Berkshire, but I could put in a word to have her transferred here. Would just have to make space in the mechanic bay.”

“That’s,” Bond felt a lump in his throat that he had to swallow down with wine, “that’s not necessary.”

“I know,” Q said, “but it would be something that was yours. Something that makes you happy.”

“Happy.”

“You know, _happiness_? The thing that makes your life not a miserable abyss?”

Bond managed a laugh at Q’s definition.

“Still, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, it wouldn’t happen overnight. The parts will be hard to get,” Q said, “and you could always come in and help with the restoration instead of leaving all the work to me. Less of a favour and more of a project, yeah? Maybe it would be good for you to have something to do between assignments that isn’t terrorising the staff.”

“I don’t terrorise.”

“For what you do for a living, you’re a terrible liar,” Q said, wrinkling his nose.

It was the cutest thing Bond had ever seen. He cleared his throat so he wouldn’t say it aloud.

“I’ve never built a car before,” he said instead.

“It’s not too difficult. You’ll have all the equipment you’ll need at your disposal. And people who know what they’re doing if you need help.”

“So you’ll be...at my disposal?” Bond said, raising a brow.

So much for no innuendo.

“Maybe I regret offering this…” Q said, but in good humour.

“No, no, it’s…good,” Bond said. “Thank you, Q.”

Q’s ears went a little red.

“It’s really nothing.”

“It is to me,” Bond said.

Their eyes met, and Bond realised then how romantic the setting was, dimly lit with only a single candle, the view of London with all of her lights bright and twinkling just outside the window. On their small table, their hands were so close that it wouldn’t take much to reach out and touch...

The server chose that moment to bring their appetisers, which, judging from the look on Q’s face, was a relief to break the tension between them. Bond used the distraction as an opportunity to turn the conversation into more light-hearted territory.

“How do you know so much about cars, anyway?” Bond asked.

“Do I not seem the type to know about them?” Q asked, in lieu of answering his question.

“You do come across more of a computer person…”

Q smiled in a good natured way, despite Bond basically having called him a nerd.

“Well, if you understand systems, you can understand most mechanics and electronics. For me, anyway, cars and computers aren’t very different.”

The two seemed exceedingly different to Bond, but he wasn’t about to out himself as feeling intellectually inferior. He wasn’t, by any means. Even though M had always called him a _blunt instrument_ , it was common knowledge that Bond was fluent in six languages, passable in another eight, and had a natural ability with maths. He also knew his way around a car and a computer, but not at the intimate level that Q apparently did.

Maybe Q realised how he came across, because he was quick to follow up with:

“I’m sorry, that sounded…a little pretentious. It’s not to say that they are the same, because they’re vastly different. It’s just...the way that I understand how mechanics work at the fundamental level is how I understand how electronics work, and coding, and most other types of systems. It’s really all about managing inputs and outputs.”

“That...actually makes sense,” Bond said. “You’d make a good professor.”

Something changed in Q’s expression, just for a second, so quickly that Bond thought he might have imagined it. But when he realised he hadn’t, Bond knew what it meant. Maybe that had been something Q wanted to do--or had been doing--before coming to Six. Maybe it had been something he loved and could not return to.

“If I retire, maybe,” Q said.

Bond took his offering of a subject change, asking:

“ _If_?” Planning on the long haul, hm?”

“Lots to do, and always will be. The moment I signed the papers, I pretty much planned dying at my desk like any other upstanding citizen.”

Q was smiling, but Bond felt his falter, thinking about how close Q had been to death not even a month ago. It could have been over just like that, and MI6 wouldn’t have even blinked-- _couldn’t_ have--before installing a new Quartermaster to take his place. As Q said: lots to do.

“Bond?”

Bond thought back to that moment in Q’s office, when Q had touched his hand and said his name, and he suddenly needed to hear it again.

“Call me James.”

“James,” Q said, and Bond swore his name never sweeter.

He looked down at their hands, still so close, but so far.

“What were you thinking, just now?” Q asked.

“I was just thinking that...you should. Retire, I mean. Obviously not now, but someday.”

“Says the man who will also never retire.”

“Double-Ohs never do. Lots to do.”

Q smiled a little sadly.

“You know that your usefulness doesn’t end if you leave the field, don’t you?” Q asked, so gentle, so kind, that Bond felt overwhelmingly undeserving of him in that moment,

“There’s not much else left for people like me.”

“That’s not true. There’s so much more you can do. Just because you have a number doesn’t mean you have to die with one.”

Bond felt too seen, too understood in that moment, and wanted nothing more than to retreat. He slid his hand away from Q’s, suddenly remembering why he never did close the gap between them all these years. All those moments, all those opportunities, but knowing that his life could be forfeit at any moment. And what sort of hole would that leave in the life of the person left behind?

But Q saw him pulling away, and before Bond could move his hand off the table, Q’s fingers touched his tentatively. His hand felt warm, so different from that day in the lift, when he’d been cold and trembling and dying in Bond’s arms. The memory of it, the realisation that Q could not be sitting across from him right now, moved Bond to return the touch. And then he was twining their fingers together, holding and not wanting to let go. But still, he found himself struggling; Bond knew what was best, but it was at odds with what he wanted so desperately.

“It doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow,” Q said, and his thumb brushed over the back of Bond’s hand, “but if the day comes when you’re done, just know, that doesn’t mean it’s over. Maybe it’s just the start of something different.”

Bond didn’t know what to say, feeling so many words vying for attention on his tongue. But then their meals were presented, and both Bond and Q jerked their hands apart as if they had been burned.

“Maybe we ought to think of more appropriate table conversation,” Bond suggested.

Q huffed out a laugh.

“When are we ever appropriate?”

Bond thought it would take a minute or two for them to get off the ground with non-awkward conversation, but they were able to pick up right away, the words flowing effortlessly as they always seemed to with Q.

It was nothing at all like when Bond needed information from a mark, or knew he had to ply them with compliments to woo them into his bed. This was all about connecting with someone he inherently trusted, someone he wanted to know more about.

And there was so much more to know.

Of course Bond knew that Q was smart and funny--from that first sarcastic quip out of his mouth at the National Gallery the day they met-- but what he didn’t know was just how blindingly brilliant and surprisingly funny Q could be outside of the office. Bond wondered how he’d missed it all this time, how he’d never known that Q was more than just formulas and code and gadgetry; they talked politics, economics, and history, Q passionate and well-read and more skilled at conversation than Bond had ever thought possible. And in between, they somehow found room to laugh. Not forced, awkward laughter, either. The kind of laughter that Bond hadn’t indulged in in years.

At the end of the meal, the server came back with the dessert menu. When he walked away, Q glanced at the menu with a guilty expression.

“I’m so full I shouldn’t even be looking at this…”

“Go ahead, order something. You can always take it to go.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ve got a thing for chocolate.”

For some reason, it made Bond think back to that day in the lift, when he’d been full of all that guilt and regret. There was still time to change. He had been given the chance, and now was the time to take it.

“It’s funny, sort of,” Bond began, but then stopped.

“What?”

“It’s...nothing. Nevermind.”

Q flipped the dessert menu down to give him his full attention.

“What?”

Bond dragged his fingers through the condensation on his wine glass, very aware that Q was watching him.

“That day in the lift.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw Q touch his throat, his fingers idly playing with the collar of his shirt as if he hadn’t realised he’d raised his hand.

“I don’t think you remember, but, I asked you to dinner and... you said you’d pencil me in so long as you could order more than one dessert.”

Q went red.

“What? No I didn’t!” Q said, then looked very embarrassed. “Did I…?”

“You did. Very clearly. At least two desserts, you said.”

Q hid his face in his hands, all of him red beneath his splayed white fingers.

“On my deathbed and my last words were about chocolate… sounds about right. Please never tell anyone…”

“I’m sure there’s video of it.”

“Oh God…”

“So go ahead,” Bond said, nodding at the menu, “two desserts. At least.”

Q picked up the menu, laughing, and then he smiled something softer, as if remembering something fondly. Bond liked the look on him and said so, relishing in the blush that it brought.

“It’s really silly but...it makes me think about my parents…”

That was not what Bond expected, and Q seemed surprised at himself as well, but he continued:

“When I was a kid, I started asking my parents all the big questions sort of early: why do we die?; why are we here?; what did it mean to fall in love?; those kinds of semi-unanswerable questions that make everyone feel awkward. I honestly don’t remember how they answered the first two, but how they answered the last one stuck with me. My mum said _the person who loves you most will always let you order two desserts; and you know you love them back when you’re willing to share_. It seems silly saying it out loud, actually, but…I dunno, it’s just...a good memory I have of them.”

Q laughed, but his eyes were sad. Bond knew the look immediately. Somewhere in Q’s self-titled Boring Life Story, he had omitted a very important event.

“When?” Bond asked.

“I was eight. Plane crash,” Q said, not looking at Bond, or much of anything. “Pan Am Flight 103.”

Bond realised, now, why Q didn’t fly, why he said he would never retire as Quartermaster, as if he had a duty to his parents to protect the country from an attack like that ever happening again.

He didn’t say anything else, not right away. Q had shared with him a very intimate memory, and Bond wasn’t about to brush it off like nothing, not when there was so much trust between them. But once Q started looking too sad, Bond knew it was time to change the atmosphere into something a bit less melancholy. So Bond plucked the menu from Q’s hands and turned it face down on the table.

“Why don’t we order all of the desserts?”

Q looked as if the suggestion had been an affront on nature.

“No! That’s excessive!”

“Q, there are like four desserts on this menu.”

“Five, and that is way too many.”

“Live a little. You almost died,” Bond reminded him.

“Yes, but if I eat five desserts, I probably will probably go into a diabetic coma and die,” Q replied.

“We’ll share, then.”

“You don’t like sweet things.”

“Every now and then I do.”

Q shook his head and put on his best Quartermaster voice:

“It’s excessive and ridiculous when there are starving people somewhere and there’s absolutely no way we’re doing it.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

“I can’t believe... we ordered five desserts... ”

Q sat in the passenger seat beside him, a brown bag on his lap filled with a few carry away boxes, which contained the remnants of two different types of cakes and an almost pristine fruit-covered creme brulee.

“I can’t believe you ate most of them.”

“You helped!”

“But you did most of the damage.”

Q groaned.

“I can’t believe you let me. You are so irresponsible.”

“Me? I’m not the one who ate them.”

“No, but you’re the one who tempted me. How could I not try all of them?”

Bond laughed.

“I’ll remember next time that you have no self-control.”

“I really don’t,” Q said, “I’m weak when it comes to the things that I want.”

Bond glanced at Q out of the corner of his eye, and saw Q looking at him with open desire. It stirred a heat in Bond that he hadn’t felt in years, something that he honestly never expected to feel again. It had never concerned him that he didn’t feel it every time he went to bed with someone, as it wasn’t necessary for him to feel such a thing when engaging in sexual relationships with men and women both on and off mission, because he didn’t need that feeling to get hard or satisfy his partners.

But this, _oh_ , this was desire for a partner that he respected and trusted more than anyone else, someone for whom he wanted to take all of his walls and barriers down.

Someone who he thought he could love, who would love him in return.

Bond suddenly felt very warm, his throat hot and tight, and only could get out one word without his voice breaking:

“Noted.”

Q didn’t say anything else, only humming in response before turning his gaze out the window. Bond focused back on the road, following the instructions from the satnav so he didn’t miss the appropriate turn. When he pulled onto Q’s street, it was quiet, lit by amber streetlamps. All of the surrounding houses were dark, sleeping in the light snow that had started to fall and accumulate on rooftops and hedges. Bond pulled the Jag into the spot from earlier, killing the engine so that he didn’t wake the neighbourhood.

Without the engine running and the lights from the dash, the interior of the car went silent and dark. Q didn’t say anything, and neither did Bond. He felt conflicted in his desire to be a gentleman, to walk Q to his door with no intention of following him inside, in direct opposition to that burning need to lean across the small space between them and kiss Q until neither of them could breathe.

But then he remembered that day in the lift, the soft huff of breath when Q had said _‘m’not...one of your girls...Bond…_ and he knew then what Q would think of him. Bond had a reputation, after all, notorious for his one-night stands, his love-’em-and-leave-’em routine. But that’s not what Q was. He would never be that, not to Bond. Not ever. And so he was willing to wait, even if that meant going another night without telling Q how he felt. Without _showing_ Q how much he meant to him.

They silence was now thick enough to cut with a knife. Bond gripped the steering wheel, debating on what to do, but Q took the lead.

“Did you want to come in? Maybe have some tea? Or, well, you don’t like tea so...coffee? I probably have a French press somewhere...”

“Maybe another time,” Bond said.

“Okay,” Q said, fiddling with the bag on his lap. “Well, um… thanks for dinner. And the ridiculous amounts of desserts.”

“Of course. We should do it again,” Bond replied, “though maybe with a few less desserts next time?”

Q laughed, and it was such a nice sound that Bond immediately regretted ending the evening so early. But he knew that if he had taken Q’s offer to come inside, he would have pursued something more than tea and coffee.

“Well,” Q said, breaking another gap of silence between them, “um, good night?”

“Good night,” Bond said.

Q shifted in his seat, then leaned toward Bond. Bond pulled back, and Q stopped, moved away, and let out a breath that sounded pained.

“I am so sorry I think I really misread this I am so so sorry,” Q said, all in a rush, reaching for the door handle to let himself out of the car. “Please forget I did that and don’t ever mention it again, good night!”

And with that, Q was out of the car, making a beeline for his front door. Bond blinked, unable to process what just happened. Once he did, Bond hurried to get out of the car, slipping along the icy pavement to Q’s steps. Q was at the front door, fiddling with his keys, his motions more frantic as Bond approached.

“Q, wait--”

“Nope, I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. So so sorry. I’m bad at reading people and am the absolute worst so I’m going to just go drink myself into a coma so please leave me alone in my misery and don’t ever talk to me again, thanks--”

Bond reached out and grasped Q’s elbow gently, halting his movements.

“What are you talking about?”

Q stopped fiddling with his keys, but wouldn’t turn round to face him.

“I thought this was, after everything...I mean...the way we were talking before, after you came back and..then at dinner...” Q paused, and Bond could see that his ears were red, either from the cold or a blush. “I thought this was, you know... A date.”

“It was,” Bond said.

Q turned slowly, looking very confused.

“It was…a date?” Q asked.

“What else would it be?” Bond asked.

“A... very big misunderstanding?”

“It was a date, Q,” Bond said, “I don’t want you to think it was anything but.”

“Then... why don’t you want to come in?”

“Because I want to do it right.”

“...right?” Q repeated.

“You know,” Bond said helplessly, making a vague gesture with his hands for lack of words.

Q blinked, silent at first, until he started laughing. It echoed along the dark, sleepy street.

“Wait, wait. You mean the three date rule?” Q asked.

Bond felt suddenly very embarrassed.

“Well, yes…”

“That’s a little old-fashioned,” Q told him.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, no, it’s sweet, really. It’s just… I mean, it’s been almost three years...it’s not like we’re strangers…and,” Q stepped closer, so that he could say the last part quietly without it carrying down the street, “you _did_ kill fourteen people for me.”

Q did have a point.

“Still,” Bond said, thinking again about what Q had said in the lift. “I want to. I want to show I respect you.”

Q pressed against him, warm and sweet and lovely. Melting droplets of snow glittered in his hair, dewed on his cheeks, and he was so beautiful that Bond could scarcely catch his breath.

“Then don’t make me wait.”

So Bond kissed him.

It was nothing at all like Bond had imagined.

All he knew was what he had experienced prior to this: the sweeping, adrenaline-high passion of a first kiss in a school closet with someone much older and experienced, the emotional whirlwind after a near death experience and the relief that survival brought. It had always been a primal thing: hungry kisses, desperate grasping at clothes and hair and flesh. And after--if there was an after--the relationship had been like being a kite caught in a hurricane, barely able to hold on, only able to follow where the battering winds lead.

It was all Bond knew, all he had ever experienced.

All he thought there was.

But this was so very different: quiet and soft and so very deep. It wasn’t pulling Bond so much as it enveloped him, ensconcing him in a warmth and comfort that he never knew he needed or wanted. It felt familiar, somehow, but Bond couldn’t put his finger on it right away, not until Q made a small, lovely sound against his lips. It reminded Bond of all of those missions when Q had been in his ear, calmly guiding him out of hellish situations to safety, to _home_. Bond then realised when he had felt a hint of this feeling before: in the way that Q always said _good luck out there in the field_ when Bond left and how he would stay up into the odd hours of the night to wait for him to walk through the door, just so he could say _welcome back, Double-Oh Seven_ , as if he were truly happy to have Bond back in one piece.

And Bond wondered if this was what it felt like to be loved.

When they finally parted for air, Q’s eyes were dark, lips red, and Bond couldn’t resist the urge to kiss him again.

The second kiss was just as the first had been, so deep and so intimate that Bond could scarcely catch his breath. And then Q’s fingers gripped at him, and his desire was so tangible, so overwhelmingly present, that Bond felt deliriously light-headed. Despite the snow, Bond was flushed, overheated, and very, very desperate to get out of his clothes.

The front light flicked on next door, brightly illuminating the walk and effectively separating them. They didn’t see anyone in the front window, but the curtains did rustle, as if someone were straightening them on the other side.

“I think we’re being watched,” Bond whispered.

“Should we go inside, then?” Q asked.

Bond leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, reveling in the shiver that it brought from Q.

“Let’s.”

Q found the correct key right away and hurriedly let them inside.

They stepped into the dark foyer and, once the door closed, they were left with barely any light. Still, Bond was able to find Q’s lips again, to gently press his body against the door. Q’s arms went round his shoulders, pulling him closer, until they were touching everywhere from lips to knees. Hands pushed at Bond’s coat, dropping it onto the floor, and Bond did the same with Q’s.

The bag full of desserts dropped to the floor.

“Upstairs?” Q murmured against his mouth, and then he nipped, just slightly at Bond’s lips, pulling a groan from his chest.

“We should put the desserts away first,” Bond reminded him, already sliding his hands up under Q’s shirt, pulling it out from the waistband of those impeccable trousers.

“Don’t be practical,” Q grumbled, before kissing him thoroughly again.

“I’m nothing but practical,” Bond said, between kisses as he slid out of one shoe, then the other.

“You’re never practical,” Q replied, chasing his lips as he followed suit, discarding his shoes carelessly on the foyer mat. “Ever. Never ever.”

“But I want to spy around your house a little more,” Bond said.

“Spy the bedroom first, everything else later.”

“You just want to show off your rocket ship bed, don’t you?”

Q pinched his nipple through his shirt, but if anything the pleasure-pain of it just made Bond want to tease him even more. Perhaps Q realised this, because he made a sound of frustration.

“You’re maddening.”

“You love it.”

Q grumbled something that Bond couldn’t understand, then kissed him hard before grabbing the bag from the floor at their feet.

“Five seconds,” Q told him, and dashed towards the kitchen, throwing only a single light on as he went.

Using the light, Bond locked the front door behind him for safety, then dropped his keys and wallet and phone into the dish by the mail. Not even a moment later, Q reappeared, sliding on mismatched socks along the wood floor toward him. His hair was a mess, his glasses askew, and cheeks a lovely pink. Bond couldn’t remember ever seeing someone so lovely before.

“Okay, I’m--”

Bond silenced him with a kiss, pressing him up against the foyer wall. Q’s arms came round his neck and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss, and before Bond knew it they were kissing like the world was about to end. All those years of looking but never touching, all that frustration of wanting but never being able to act upon it, came rushing to the surface all at once, driving in them a desperation to be closer, until there was nothing between them but skin.

“Okay, upstairs, now,” Bond said against Q’s mouth.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Q said.

Q held his hand and led the way, turning off lights as they went through the house and upstairs. Bond felt giddy, like a teenager whose parents had gone out for the night. He didn’t register the house or its objects or the two pairs of glowing cat eyes watching them from the top landing, too focused on Q’s hand in his, and the excited tug as they reached the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

When Q turned on the bedside light, it revealed a small room that was dominated by a queen sized bed covered in cozy blankets and pillows. Q sat down on the edge of the bed, then fell back, pulling Bond along until he was on top of him. Having Q under him, warm and pliant, made Bond lean back, just a moment, so he could observe the man beneath him.

“Maybe I am a liar.”

“Oh, about what specifically?” Q asked, propping himself up on his elbow, the tips of his fingers dragging along Bond’s inner arm. “Should we stop so I can get a pen and paper to write it all down? Sure it’ll be a long list.”

He was teasing, but his eyes went dark with desire as Bond closened their proximity, even darker when their lips were inches apart.

“I lied about tonight,” Bond said, “about waiting.”

“Good,” Q said, taking one of Bond’s hands and moving it down along his body to the front of his trousers, where a very persistent erection stretched the fabric taut against his hip, “because I was really going to be upset if you made me take care of his by myself tonight.”

“So forward.”

“Three years,” Q reminded him.

“Well, then, let’s not waste any more time…”

He slid his hand over the ridge in Q’s trousers, giving him a firm rub with the heel of his palm, effectively silencing Q’s taunts. But he didn’t offer additional friction after that, choosing instead to use his hands to undress Q one article of clothing at a time, moving slowly, reverently, loving the frustrated sounds Q made when he brushed his fingers playfully against his skin, always just a tease, nothing more.

He started with Q’s socks, then belt, then trousers, until Q was left in nothing but his shirt and pants. It was a sight to see him buttoned up, but still so vulnerable, each inch of skin revealed as he slowly undid one button from hem to collar. When Bond had finished with the buttons, he parted the fabric, revealing the pale expanse of Q’s chest.

Q wasn’t skinny as Bond had always imagined. Actually, he was rather lean, every inch of him muscle and sinew, not a hint of fat on him. He barely had any hair, either--just a bit under the arms and a dusting at his navel--which Bond found strangely alluring. He dragged his fingers over Q’s bare chest, skipping up from ribs, over a nipple, straight to the jut of a defined collarbone.

There, Bond saw it: a small, flesh-coloured bandage at Q’s throat. It had been easily hidden by his buttoned collar all night, but now, Bond could see it clearly. The sight of it brought him back to the lift, to that near brush with death that had almost prevented this moment from ever happening. Maybe he paused too long, because Q made an aborted move to cover himself with his shirt as he reached out blindly for the lamp switch to darken the room.

Bond stopped him with gentle hands. The same hands that had killed fourteen people so that they could have this moment together without fear, touching so tenderly because Q deserved nothing less.

“No,” Bond said, “I want to see you. Please.”

Q flushed, obviously embarrassed by all the attention, and made an attempt to divert Bond’s attention by tugging on his shirt.

“Only if I get to see you. You’re wearing far too many clothes…”

Bond looked down at himself, fully clothed, and had to agree.

“You have a point,” Bond said, and Q grinned, his shyness gone.

Before Bond knew it, he was the one on his back, Q on top of him, bare except for his pants and the sleeves of his shirt that had fallen to his elbows. Q kissed him, hot, heady, his hips thrusting against Bond’s as he divested him of his shirt and vest. He threw the articles of clothing over his head carelessly, where they fell to the floor, over the dresser, the footboard, everywhere. Bond thought about saying something--a joke, perhaps, about his clothes looking better on the bedroom floor--but Q’s lips moved from his, southward in direction, and Bond lost all ability to formulate words under the ministrations of his lips and tongue.

Q only stopped in his exploration to give more tender attention to Bond’s scars--the deep gouge in his shoulder, the starburst over his ribs where Eve had gotten him years ago, and all the others that marked his skin--and place gentle kisses to the still-healing bruises and cuts from Bond’s most recent excursion.

But then Q was down at the shelf of his hip, and Bond’s vision darkened at the edges with pleasure as he used his teeth there.

Bond knew where Q was going, just as much as he knew that if Q did go there, he wouldn’t last much longer. Gently, Bond tugged him back up along his body to kiss him again.

Q groaned at being diverted away, but it was playful, and he acquiesced, letting Bond set the pace again. While Bond was all for hot and heavy, he really wanted to enjoy the night, exploring every inch of Q that had been previously denied to him, hidden behind those shapeless cardigans and terribly-patterned trousers.

He discovered that Q was beautifully sensitive in specific places--just behind his right ear, that delicate slope where his shoulder and neck joined, and the insides of his elbows and wrists--and Bond exploited them mercilessly to make Q tremble again and again.

“James,” Q breathed, and his eyes were hooded and dark.

“Hm?”

Q gripped at his hair, the perfect mixture of pain and pleasure that set Bond’s nerves alight.

“Please…”

“Please what?”

Q groaned and tugged at his hair again.

“Like you don’t know?”

Bond felt him moving his hips beneath him, searching for friction.

“So eager,” Bond teased.

“I’ve been with no one but my hand for ages. You’d be eager too…”

“I am eager,” Bond told him, placing a gentle kiss at the edge of the bandage at Q’s throat. “I can’t remember the last time I was with someone because I wanted to be…”

Q trembled under him, under his mouth, and it was so very different from the way he had shivered in the lift over a month ago. This was pleasure, not pain, and Bond felt like he could drown in Q’s skin, in his breaths, because he was alive, and they were both finally, _finally_ here, together.

“James…” Q sighed, his arms coming round his shoulders.

His body continued to tremble, Q’s tension and desire so intense that he couldn’t control it, that Bond could feel him practically vibrating against him with need.

Bond knew they were both too riled up to last, and so he urged Q’s hand back from where it had been reaching for the bedside drawer. They weren’t prepared for that level of intimacy, not right now anyway, and it wasn’t like either of them would be able to make it more than a minute or two at the rate they were going. So Bond quickly made work of both of their pants, then took them both in hand.

The heat and hardness of Q against him was so overwhelming that Bond felt his breaths stutter. He couldn’t remember anything feeling quite so good before, and that feeling only intensified when Q arched under him, keening at the touch as he came apart. Bond was only a few seconds behind, his vision cutting to white, then black, in rapid succession with pleasure.

After, they could only lay there, tangled together, panting until their breathing returned to normal. Bond didn’t often indulge in the after, but he did tonight, enjoying the heat of Q against him until their spend cooled uncomfortably on their skin. He went in search of a flannel and found one in the adjoining bathroom, which he dampened and then used to clean them both up. When he was through and returned to the bedroom, Q’s eyes were on him, dark and come-hither, everything about him open and relaxed and so beautiful that Bond crawled back to him and settled down beside him.

They kissed for a long time, Bond losing track of just how long, enjoying the honeyed afterglow that had their nerves still singing. It felt so good that they almost tried to go again, but neither of them quite managed to get that far, and yet, there wasn’t any shame or embarrassment about it, just a bit of quiet, shared laughter between them. And that didn’t stop them from kissing until their eyes felt heavy, their bodies tired and sated.

He never indulged like this, never allowing himself to truly relax, to feel the heaviness of his body succumbing to sleep in someone else’s bed. It wasn’t to say that Bond never wanted to, because he had always ached to fall asleep with his body pressed against someone he trusted more than anyone, and then to wake with all of him wrapped around that person. He had thought, a long time ago, that he’d found it, but it had all been an illusion.

This time, with Q, he knew it was different.

“I never thought you’d be so sweet,” Q said sleepily, as their kisses became softer, more languid with their exhaustion.

“Don’t tell. It’ll ruin my reputation,” Bond said, and Q smiled.

“Our secret.”

Bond kissed him one last time before reaching over to turn out the light. Then he settled back down, Q’s back to his chest, his arm round his waist, their legs entwined. It was nothing short of perfect. He was just lulling himself to sleep, brushing his lips over the wing of Q’s shoulder, when Q murmured in the dark:

“Will you stay?”

“If you want me to.”

“I want you to,” Q said.

Bond swore his heart had never been fuller.

“Then I’ll stay.”

And he did.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Everything changed after that, but in the best possible way.

The two of them no longer had to hide their attraction for one another, Bond finally free to touch and kiss when he wanted. Q was more than agreeable to it, offering his own affection as freely and often as Bond. It was amazing how months ago, they had been practically strangers--always looking but never acting upon that thing that had been simmering for years now--and now, just like that, they were not only lovers, but best of friends.

Bond had nothing to compare it to. Never before had he felt so connected to someone else, both in body and mind. They could make love for hours just as easily as they could talk--or not say a word--and both were so good and felt so _right_ that Bond wondered how he could have existed without it before. How many nights would have been better if they had been in Q’s bed? How many days would have not been wasted had they started at Q’s kitchen counter?

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Q said, one morning, when he discovered Bond making breakfast.

“I’m a man of many talents,” Bond replied.

“And one of them is looking good in an apron,” Q said, and kissed him on his way to the kettle.

And just like that, Bond found joy in making breakfast every time he was back in London, watching Q watch him appreciatively from over the rim of his mug.

Nothing changed at work, aside from the fact that neither of them used the lift in the garage anymore. Q said that he wasn’t afraid, just more cautious after the incident, and often took the Tube when Bond was away on assignment instead of driving in.

When Bond was at Six, they were still as borderline unprofessional as they had been, but three months into their relationship, what with Bond practically moved into Q’s little terrace house, they officially put in the paperwork with HR. It felt very strange for Bond to sit in a cramped conference room at Six to sign the papers that made Q his official next-of-kin, but he felt somehow lighter for it afterwards. And it was all very confidential, of course, which meant that everyone knew about it within an hour.

“Apparently, there was a betting pool,” Q informed Bond, later that night, when they were preparing for bed.

“Oh?” Bond asked, idly petting Jacques, who sat on the edge of the bed; Marzipan watched, jealously, from atop the wardrobe.

“About when we would get together,” Q elaborated.

He took off his glasses, setting them on the bedside next to his mobile, before sliding under the duvet with Bond.

“Oh,” Bond said again, and then leaned back so that they were facing one another. “Who won?”

“Tanner,” Q replied.

“Good man.”

“Eve is apparently very put out by this. She was off by a week,” Q explained. “She’s out fifty quid.”

“Shame,” Bond said, and Q laughed.

And just like that, with everything official and Tanner four hundred quid richer, they were no longer the centre of attention. Everyone had gotten used to Bond being a fixture in Q-Branch--bringing gifts from his time abroad or takeaway when Q had to work late--and the interest in his relationship with the Quartermaster had died off. They were not much of the office gossip anymore, which was fine by Bond, because now minion eyes didn’t even bother looking up when he walked into the room, let alone when he decided to steal Q away for some inappropriate office PDA behind closed office doors.

Of course, they weren't always stealing away for a quick kiss (or more) somewhere. Most of the time they were very responsible and spent many a late evening working on the car. Q had held up to his end of the deal and cleared a space for the remains of the Aston in his mechanic bay. It took almost two months to get the parts shipped to London from Berkshire.

When the Aston arrived--about a week after they signed their papers with HR--Bond felt his heart sink at the sight of her. Q been right when he said there wasn’t much left: just a steering wheel, the bonnet, and the burnt up undercarriage. Upon review, they discovered that the chassis had been destroyed so badly that, for safety, they scrapped it entirely. Bond felt like giving up then and there, maybe just going through the purchase of the Jag that he’d gotten used to but didn’t love as deeply as he had the old Aston.

“No,” Q said, when Bond had brought it up. “We’re going to do this. It’ll take time, but we’ll get it done.”

“There’s nothing left… it would be too much work,” Bond said.

“I’ve done more with less,” Q said, “like I do with your equipment most times.”

“I’m getting better!”

Q kissed him with a playful smile.

“I know,” he said, “but what I’m saying is that we can do it. Just don’t give up so easily. All good things to those who wait.”

Bond cupped his cheek in his hand, realising just how right Q was about that.

“Okay.”

And so the hunt began, online and in person, for new parts.

Bond never expected that he would spend several weekends adventuring to junkyards and storage facilities packed high with broken car parts, digging through piles of debris for the engine parts and side doors and headlamps and whatever else they needed that they couldn’t recreate. He actually found himself looking forward to these excursions--those few coinciding days when Bond was in London and Q was not working--when they would jet off to some obscure place in a rented truck and Bond would spend the afternoon watching Q get dirty as he sorted through their treasures. Somehow he would always end up with oil on his nose, and the sight of it was always so endearing that Bond couldn’t help but fall more and more in love with him.

That’s not to say Q couldn’t be a strict taskmaster.

Whenever Bond came back from an assignment and Q had to work, he would leave a list for Bond to accomplish. Bond always found himself sandblasting one thing or another, having to wear a full mask and goggle setup to keep from breathing in the detritus of whatever part he happened to be working on. He learned to hate this tedious work--much preferring the times when he and Q could work together on something, leaning over an engine together, their bodies close, hands brushing as they worked--but Bond knew the outcome would be worth it. Not only would the car be beautiful when they were done, but Bond knew that Q had a thing for him in his sandblasting get-up, as they would always have a meal and then a satisfying shag after.

“Is it the goggles?” Bond had asked one night, after a particularly enjoyable go.

Q laughed, not even pretending he didn’t know what Bond was talking about.

“Nope.”

“Then what is it?”

“You’ll just laugh at me.”

Bond tickled him with kisses, knowing just where Q was most vulnerable, and it didn’t take long for Q to surrender.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll talk,” Q gasped, breathless.

“It’s the goggles, isn’t it? Tell me the truth.”

“It’s your tee shirt.”

“What?”

Q flushed all the way to his collarbones.

“You...you’re always wearing suits and…when you sandblast you put on this casual get up...” Q put his hands over his face, reddening deeper somehow beneath his pale fingers, as he finished quickly: “the tees make your arms look nice.”

Bond couldn’t help but laugh.

“You told me this once before,” Bond said, “that I have nice arms.”

Q somehow went even redder.

“What? No I didn’t??”

“That day in the lift,” Bond reminded him, “something about having the best arms you’ve ever seen, on top of a perfect physique, of course.”

Q continued to hide behind his fingers.

“Oh my god, how embarrassing,” Q said.

“I thought it was cute.”

Q swatted at him.

“Nothing I said while suffering from a poisoning should count against me!”

Bond grinned, but didn’t tease him any further.

“Well, if you like the tees, I’ll be sure to wear them more often,” Bond promised.

And he did, much to Q’s--and Bond’s--delight.

Months passed in the blink of an eye, and then, before they knew it, the holidays were upon them. This coincided with the end of Bond’s lease on his flat, and right before Christmas, he officially moved into Q’s place. He only had a few boxes worth of things, but Q made sure that there was room on his shelves in the sitting room for Bond’s books--and, of course, M’s bulldog, which was given a place of pride on the center shelf at eye level--and enough space in the wardrobe and dresser for his clothes.

Being so welcome in Q’s home--now _his_ home, too--made Bond feel more cherished than he had in a long time. He found himself actually in the holiday spirit, dragging Q out to get a small tree for their front window, which he decorated in multi-colour fairy lights to match the neighbourhood decorations. On Christmas morning, there were even a few gifts under the tree, one of which was the muffler Q had promised him on their first date. It was absolutely hideous but Bond loved it all the same. 

New Year’s wasn’t as fun as Christmas, what with Bond being sent away on assignment, but when he came back home at the end of January--his back and ribs bruised badly from a car accident that would ground him for another month in London--they drank the champagne Q had bought and stayed up until midnight just because. They weren’t able to do much with Bond’s injuries, but it was nice all the same to lay his head in Q’s lap and watch telly as Q petted idly at his hair.

By the time Bond had healed up, it was almost Valentine’s Day.

Instead of going out--because Q made a face at Bond’s mention of the day--Bond ordered in Thai food with the intention to spend the night working on the Aston. That was the night that they had a breakthrough: they got the Aston’s engine to finally turn over without sounding as if it were drowning. For months, they had been having problems locating all the parts--Q insisting that the Aston needed the original motor for it to be a true restoration--and then, after finding them, had to deal with terrible oil leakage issues.

But that night, Q made a few more adjustments, and, not even bothering to close the bonnet, handed Bond the keys.

“I think I’ve fixed the problem. Let’s hear her.”

Bond slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition, expecting the hiccup and then stutter that they had been hearing for ages now.

Oh, but now she _purred_.

She was still missing a lot of parts, including tires and a backseat and the majority of a dash, but the Aston was alive again. Under Bond’s hands, the soft vibration of the steering wheel was exactly as he remembered. Q came to him, leaning an elbow on the edge of Bond’s windowless driver door.

“What do you think?” he asked

Bond leaned through the window and kissed him in lieu of reply. Q flushed, like he always did when Bond caught him by surprise.

“Still a long way to go,” Q told him, “but we’re halfway there.”

He was right. There were still so many parts to get and so many things to do. It would be another few months, Bond knew, before they could even drive her.

He spent those few months in and out of the country, only able to work on the car on those couple days in between missions or when he was on recovery. With every assignment, he felt less and less eager to leave, reminded that Q had been talking about a movie he wanted to see or a restaurant he thought they might like or that such-and-such thing needed repaired around the house. Bond realised that he didn’t want to be halfway around the world when he finally had a home and someone there waiting for him, who wanted to see movies and go out to eat and all sorts of other things that he had been missing out on for years.

Bond was getting tired, too. He knew that it came with age, that he’d eventually slow down, that it would take longer to heal up from minor injuries. Now, he felt every bump and bruise and break so acutely, and he wondered how long it would be before one of them made him miss a step. He wondered if it would be on assignment, if that would be the end of him, and then thought of Q, working on the car, thinking about movies and restaurants and their house, when someone approached him with the news…

“Are you sure?”

It was one of London’s unusually beautiful days outside of Mallory’s office window. Bond had just returned from his mission in Angola and had come in for debrief. With his completed paperwork--which had put Mallory’s eyebrows up to his receding hairline--Bond had included his letter of resignation.

“I am,” Bond said.

Mallory smiled in a way that said he understood without Bond having to explain.

“If you’d like to stay on in some capacity, we have some openings in our training programmes,” Mallory said, “including the Double-Oh Programme.”

“With all due respect,” Bond said, and Mallory’s eyebrows went higher at his sincerity, “I think I’d rather do something a little different.”

“Oh, and what is that, exactly?” he asked.

“Well, I was thinking…”

A half hour later, Bond was on his way to Q-Branch, a spring in his step, his thoughts clear for the first time in ages. He had just barely crossed the threshold, when Q came to him. He was in casual work attire: a pair of better-fitting trousers (thanks to Bond’s intervention) and a button down with its sleeves rolled up to Q’s elbows. He was without a tie, as Bond preferred him, and all smiles. Bond wondered if he had already heard somehow.

But then Bond saw the keys in his hand.

“Is she…?”

“All finished,” Q said, and dropped the keys into Bond’s palm. “Got the windscreen put in yesterday and--”

Bond kissed him right there, right in front of everyone, unable to hold himself back. Q didn’t pull away to admonish him, either, and Bond felt his arms come round his neck to bring him closer. The scene earned a _whoop_ and a smattering of claps from the minions, which made them separate, Q looking somewhat embarrassed at the spectacle.

R appeared, waving them away in the direction of R&D’s garage.

“You go on,” she said, and before Q could argue with her, she added: “You’ve got more accumulated time off than anyone else. Take some of it. We’ll handle things here.”

“Thanks, R,” Bond said, tugging Q along before he could find a reason to stay.

But once they were in the garage, Bond no longer had to pull Q along. Instead, Q was at his side, already rambling off the list of improvements he had made while Bond had been away.

“I couldn’t put the ejector seats in or the machine guns in the headlamps, because we do have to keep this street legal, but I did sneak in the oil slick, so if you have someone tailing you in traffic and you want to teach them a bit of a lesson…”

They were at the car now and Bond felt his throat close up at the sight of her. She was just as he remembered her from all those years ago. Sleek, polished chrome and that particular shade of blue-grey that drew eyes and admiration.

“Oh, and I know it wasn’t in the original schematics, but I put an autostart in. For those colder days,” Q said, nodding at the fob on the ring in Bond’s hand.

He pressed it, and the Aston started up, purring beautifully as she had the day Bond had first laid eyes on her. But Bond wasn’t looking at the Aston now. Instead, he was looking at Q.

“I love you,” he said, without doubt or hesitation.

Q coloured all the way down to the little white scar in the hollow of his throat.

“You’re just saying that--”

“I mean it,” Bond said, and cupped Q’s cheeks in his hands. “I love you.”

“Well...it took you long enough,” Q said, with the brightest smile Bond had ever seen. “I love you, too. Now, take me for a drive and then let’s go somewhere nice for dinner.”

Bond palmed the keys in his hand.

“Let’s go on holiday instead. A proper one,” Bond said, “driving and dinner included. We’re both overdue, and I’ve got a lot of downtime in my future.”

Q’s expression did a complete turnaround from overjoyed to concerned, his eyes scanning Bond over for injury.

“What happened? Are you hurt? What--”

Bond stopped Q before he could get wound up.

“I quit.”

It blindsided Q, that was for certain. He looked so shocked that for a moment, he couldn’t speak. When he could again, it was only one word:

“What?”

Bond shut off the car with the press of a button, then reached for Q’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“I quit MI6.”

“Wait wait wait wait wait,” Q said, “when did this happen?”

“An hour or so ago.”

“You just… what...you quit? Why?”

Bond kissed him, very softly on the mouth, hoping it would ease that troubled line between his brows. When they parted, he saw that it had softened slightly, but still remained.

“Because I love you.”

“That’s not a reason to quit,” Q said, “I would never want you to--”

“I know,” Bond said, “I did this because I wanted to.”

Q looked very helpless.

“But...you love the job…”

“I love you more,” Bond said, reaching for Q’s hand “and I realised that I didn’t want to be gone all the time now that...well.”

He smoothed his thumb along the back of Q’s hand, and Q squeezed his fingers hard.

“Are you sure?” Q asked.

“Someone once told me that just because I had a number didn’t mean I had to die with one,” Bond said, and Q’s ears went red.

“But are you going to be happy, James? That’s all that matters.”

“I’ll be with you,” Bond said, “so I think I will.”

Q smiled, and Bond did too. Q had said it would be the start of something different, and Bond was looking forward to what that would be.

“By the way, when I say I’ll be with you, I mean it. I sort of… applied for a job in R&D,” Bond said, as they slid into the Aston.

“You didn’t!”

“I had fun building the car,” Bond said, smoothing his palms over the steering wheel. “I mean it, too. I had more fun that I thought. There’s still a lot for me to learn, of course, but I know you’re short staffed down here, so I thought _what the hell_.”

“Oh god, you’re going to destroy everything, aren’t you?” Q asked, but he was grinning ear-to-ear.

“I’ll be good, I promise.”

“I’ve heard that one before. You definitely owe me dinner.”

“And dessert. Two desserts, at least.”

“At least.”

Bond turned the key in the ignition, listening to the Aston start up again, loving how she sounded.

“Oh, and about that holiday…I do have two weeks before orientation training,” Bond said, and gave Q a wicked grin, “what do you say? Want to run away with me?”

Q’s smile was radiant.

“Oh, Mr. Bond, I’d be delighted.”


End file.
